Crazy Train
by heckyeahbatfam
Summary: A collection of random, unrelated Batfamily fics prompted to me on tumblr. No slash- just brotherly shenanigans! Rated T for language, because Jason likes to cuss.
1. Bloodstains

When it comes to family, Jason doesn't have high expectations. Doesn't have any expectations at all, really. Part of that is due to his inherent mistrust of all things Bat –including himself- but it's mostly because, in his line of work, he simply can't afford anything other than self-reliance. And, for the most part, this lifestyle suits him just fine. The only downside of independence, however, is that it makes the few occasions when he has to reach out for assistance that much harder, that much more aggravating.

Basically, having to depend on other people makes Jason angry. _Especially _when said person is one of his brothers.

However. Jason would rather take a bullet than say this shit aloud, but his brothers have yet to leave him hanging when he's in need. (Which isn't often, of course. Because he's a Grade-A badass, and all that.)

Which is why, when Tim fails to show up for their monthly information-swap slash meet-and-greet at his hideout in Lex Towers, he knows right away something's off. That something's wrong. If Dick and Damian are mostly dependable, Tim is excessively so. Red Robin has yet to break an appointment... something Jason does every other month, give or take.

Of course, Jason's more irritated than worried: the Pretender can take care of himself, but he really does need to know what's coming in off the coast of Miami tomorrow. As much as he resents Tim, he'll grudgingly admit that the kid's a valuable data source.

He waits around on the high-rise window ledge, unloading and reloading his weapons, playing with his knives. After a few hours, it starts to get dark, and Tim doesn't show, so he decides to just go back to kicking ass and taking names on the street level. The smugglers will live to smuggle another day.

He's irritated, but. Whatever.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, but he already knows that it's Dick: he's the only one who still texts Jason, anymore.

_Have you seen Tim today?_

_Nope._ Jason flicks it onto 'silent.' Hmm.

On the way back to his apartment for a quick pit stop, Jason swings by Tim's apartment. (And not because he's worried, okay? He just wants to be sure the kid didn't drown in the bathtub or something, because that'd mean he'd have to find another information supplier and it'd be a hassle. So.)

The window shades are drawn haphazardly, which is weird; the little shit's neurotic about orderliness. He rolls his eyes –even though there's no one around to see it- and easily picks the lock.

The living room is tidy, books alphabetized on the bookshelves, pillows perfectly distanced from each other on the couch. There's nothing out of place in the entire room, and it's creeping Jason out.

"_Replacement_?" he calls, "You in here?" He removes his helmet, tossing it onto an armchair. He moves to the slightly-open door to Tim's room. He knocks on it, once, just in case. No one responds, though, so he pushes it open and steps inside.

Tim's not here either, and the bed's so neatly made that he could bounce a quarter off the tightly made bedsheets. Jaosn thinks that maybe Tim's not here after all, that maybe he should leave. A sound from the other room makes him freeze, his hand subconsciously moving to his shoulder holster. He steps back into the empty living room, moves down the hallway toward the kitchen.

Something shifts again, and Jason thinks that maybe he should pull his gun, just to be safe. He's not nervous, though; just wary. He's at the kitchen doorway silently, sees something at the edge of the carpet where it meets the tile- is that blood? He enters, gun drawn.

Tim's lying in a heap near the far end of the kitchen, by the front door, still in his Red Robin costume.

"Shit," Jason curses, putting the safety back on, quickly setting it on the immaculate kitchen table. "Shit, shit, shit." There's a roll of bandages lying next to Tim on the floor; he must've passed out while trying to patch himself up. His cheek's against the cool tile, chest stained a deep, dark red. "What did you do, Tim?" Jason mutters again, and the boy's eyes crack open. Jason crouches beside him, trying to see if the bleeding's stopped, prodding gently for broken ribs.

Tim cries out a little when he reaches the upper ribs: broken, just as he suspected. Whatever beef he and Tim may or may not have had, he's not necessarily _happy_ to be right. Broken ribs hurt like a bitch. "Okay, Replacement," Jason says, carefully shifting the boy from on top of his pooled blood, "What do you say we get your ass patched up at Wayne Manor, yeah?"

Tim groans, and Jason decides to take that as a yes. He stows his gun back into his jacket and picks him up -the kid barely weighs anything at all- grimacing when he feels Tim's red saturate his shirt. He can't leave out the window, so he grabs his helmet from the living room and moves the front door open with his hip. And it's a damn good thing he has the bike, 'cause there's no way he's walking to Wayne Manor from here.

Replacing his helmet, he guns it to Wayne Manor, avoiding the potholes and trying to keep Tim from falling over and bleeding on the bike. Bloodstains are a pain to remove.

Carrying the kid up all those stairs is a feat in and of itself, and there's a small blood trail behind them, but they're mostly intact by the time they make it to the front foor. Jason kicks it repeatedly, trying not to jostle the boy, and a wide-eyed Alfred answers it after a few moments.

He calls for Dick, who comes running. "Oh, God," he gasps. "Timmy."

Jason rolls his eyes. "Wasn't me, idiot. Would I bring the Pretender here if I was trying to kill him?"

"Don't call him that. He might _hear_ you." Dick makes grabby hands for Tim, and Jason is more than happy to hand him over. He follows them quickly down to the med bay in the Batcave, watches as they stitch him up and hook him into a blood transfusion.

He makes his exit when Alfred starts to apply the bandages, Dick hovering nervously around the foot of the unconscious boy's bed. They can take it from here.

At home, Jason pulls off his ruined shirt and jacket, throwing the shirt into the trash and the jacket into the washing machine. He showers, makes himself a bowl of cereal, and crashes on the couch to catch the tail end of one of the Matrix movies. He doesn't know which one, but it doesn't matter.

An hour or so later, his phone lights up with another text from Dick. _Tim's going to be okay. Thanks._

Jason doesn't text back, but he knows that Dick will know he received it. The side of his mouth turns up a little. Maybe he should give the kid a little more credit, now and again.

(…Nah.)


	2. Overcast

Bruce has always been rather fond of rainy days in Gotham.

He likes the way the skyline becomes indistinguishable from the city itself, enjoys the pitter-patter of harsh raindrops on his face and the buildings that surround him. They seem appropriate, to him. Fitting.

Accordingly, the days of weak sun and blue sky his city sees tend to set him on edge, throw him ever so slightly off-balance. They're unexpected, rare, and so he doesn't trust them.

Doesn't trust anything that seems too good to be true, because that usually means it is. Blue skies are unfulfilled hopes and empty wishes, and the promise of better days that never arrive but choose instead to grace the skies above Metropolis, Central City, and the aptly-named Happy Harbor, but never Gotham.

In his mind, blue skies are nothing but a well-dressed lie.

Which is why, when he finds Jason curled up on the crooked concrete in some hellish corner of a Gotham slum, he's glad for the rain that smears the Red Hood's blood from the asphalt, washing it down into the sewers.

Jason's eyes flicker open at the approaching footsteps, and he tries to move away because _I am not a fucking charity case, Bruce_, but the dragging sensation against his injured leg makes him groan and slump down again.

Jason closes his eyes, wishing he'd had the foresight to leave his helmet on. Hindsight's always 20/20, isn't it?

It's not like Bruce wouldn't still have known who he was, it's just. Without the helmet now, Jason's especially vulnerable. Exposed.

He hates feeling vulnerable.

And when Batman lifts him up by the underarms, for a moment Jason could swear he's fourteen again, before _everything_, this time weak from broken ribs and a rooftop dive gone wrong, not from multiple gunshot wounds and a broken leg.

He cuts the memory off at the quick. Cauterizes any and all veins of rising nostalgia; at twenty-one, he's much too old to be a bleeding heart.

(Seriously, what the hell does that expression even mean, anyway?)

The large, loud part of him wants to push Bruce away, crack a joke-that's-not-really-a-joke about _nice of you to show up this time, _but the fourteen year old in him just tells him to swear a bit and let the older man get his misplaced need for redemption out of his system once and for all.

Of course, that could be the lack of blood flow to his brain speaking.

Whatever it is, he decides to listen to it and grudgingly lets Bruce half-support him to the Batmobile and whisk him away to be bandaged up by one _very _surprised Alfred.

Doesn't mean he isn't going to make the big man's life a lot more difficult from here on out, though.

(The Batcave's data bank and security systems are much easier to break from the inside.)


	3. Blindsided

**Okay, so this isn't ****_strictly_**** Batfamily, but it's Tim-centric, so I'm adding it anyway. :3**

* * *

"I love summer," Kon sighs, stretching lazily. "No homework, no responsibilities- two months of utter freedom!"

From his position on the floor of Titan's Tower, he casts a glance over at Tim, who's working away on his laptop.

Tim snorts, his shoulders subconsciously hunched over the computer screen and the documents at hand. He's perched in a distinctly bird-like fashion on the arm of the sofa, reviewing old files and organizing notes.

It's one of those lazy summer days, where the sky's the color of an island's sea- a cloudless, robin's-egg blue. Numerous fans blow cool, crisp air across the Tower, but overall they hardly make a dent in the hazy heat.

Tim straightens up for a moment, his back popping in relief. He slides off the arm of the sofa, tucking himself into the corner of it instead.

"I don't know," he muses thoughtfully, "There never really seemed to be any difference between summer and the rest of the year, for me at least. My parents gone almost all of the time, so they were never really around to tell me what to do."

Brow creasing, Conner shifts into a sitting position. He tries to catch Tim's eye, but is steadfastly avoided (or possibly, unintentionally ignored).

"Didn't you have a babysitter, or something?"

Tim shrugs good-naturedly. "Mrs. Mac kept an eye on me occasionally, but I always had free reign of the house, and almost everywhere else. One time," he stops, smiles almost _fondly_, "One time, when she wasn't there, I locked myself out of the house by mistake. I had to break a window to get in, because she was on vacation and my parents were out of the country for a few weeks."

He stares into space for a second, remembering. Then, seemingly unconcerned, he returns to the computer.

Kon, on the other hand, is very concerned. He can't believe Tim's being so nonchalant about being basically _neglected_ as a child.

"But… your parents were there for the important stuff, right?" he asks delicately, not wanting to stir up any old or hidden wounds, but at the same time, morbidly curious. "They came home for your birthday, and Christmas, right?"

Eyes back on the computer screen, Tim shrugs again. "They didn't change their schedules around those days, no. If they were home, they were home. If not-" He stops, searching for the right words. "-Then it wasn't a big deal."

His expression is utterly calm; undisturbed- and Kon is silently horrified.

All these years, he'd never known these things about Tim; never bothered to ask. His guilt is immediate and crushing, almost outweighing his anger at Tim's late parents.

Almost.

But the most terrible part of this for him to grasp is the fact that _it doesn't seem to bother Tim at all._

Is it because he doesn't know any better, or because he doesn't believe he was worth his parents' time in the first place? He knows that the latter is a dangerously real possibility, despite his friend's confident demeanor.

And it all makes sense to him now- the way Tim is so careful around others- his natural unobtrusive, quiet manner may have not been so natural after all.

Instead, the early childhood feeling of being unwanted and unloved had festered into the belief that if -and only if- he went unnoticed and didn't cause trouble, people would allow him to stay.

Tim breaks the silence, shaking him out of his reverie.

Voice only slightly lower than usual, he says, "One year, my parents were in Spain on my birthday. When they got home, my dad tried to convince me that they'd gotten stuck there, that their flight had been canceled, but."

He clears him throat, and to Kon, it sounds almost painful. "I knew better."

His eyes are still fixed on the computer screen in front of him, but he's not really looking at it.

"Tim, I'm sorry-" Kon starts, after a moment of silence, but his friend interrupts him with a rueful smile.

"Don't be," he says. "I'm not. If I hadn't had so much time to myself, I'd never have been able to be Robin. And we'd never have been friends. So, it sucked at the time, but I don't regret it."

He looks up at Kon and half-smiles, before ducking his head back down to concentrate on the laptop screen. "And neither should you."

Superboy nods reluctantly, but he promises himself that he will never miss a single one of Tim's birthdays from now on.

It's the least he can do.


	4. Reactionary

**This is Part 1 of a two-part fic.**

**Part 2 will be up tomorrow. :)**

* * *

A blade between the ribs hurts much less than Jason expects it to.

Then, not really- at first it's blinding, razor edges and tearing flesh, trickling blood and things sinking into sand, and when the Joker drags it out Jason feels it brush against everything that he needs to keep inside him, everything that can't be allowed to spool out and drag across the floor.

He can't take a breath without feeling the blood in his lungs, without tasting it on every inhale.

But after a minute everything starts to blur around the edges, and the sensation dulls.

Everything dulls.

Dying (again) hurts much less than Jason expects it to. It's more a gradual slowing down of things, and speeding up at the same time.

And damn it, he thinks, _damn it all, _the bastard's really stabbed him, turned his own knife on him, made him bleed. Again.

This is not acceptable, he thinks hazily, stumbling through the maze that is Gotham's alleys, _not acceptable at all_. Doesn't the Joker know how hard Jason worked to come back from the dead the _first_ time?

He doesn't think he can do that this time, not again.

He starts to consider that maybe this time he'll actually die in Gotham, and the sad thing is- he thinks maybe that's what he wanted all along. Scarlet gore seeps through his shirt, saturating his costume, and he curses the slight gaps in the armored plates.

The Joker doesn't stick around after, not fearing the wrath of the Bat, but rather,_inviting_ it. (He knows it won't come. No matter what he does, who he kills, it never comes.)

And when his knees give out, Jason slides to the ground and doesn't rise.

Nightwing is the first to find him there, half sitting, half lying against the falling-down cement of the apartment building, his hands on his brother's cold face, shaking him alert until he groans.

Dick finds the gaping wound easily, presses his hands against it, and Jason shudders. Cool air brushes his exposed face -he's not sure when he lost the his helmet, probably after the crowbar and before the knife- but it feels good so he doesn't complain.

Dick's voice is frantic when he radios for backup, his hands shaking as he attempts to halt the flow of blood. The Batmobile and the rest of the Bats arrive a moment later, their capes and cowls bleeding into a black in front of Jason's eyes. He blinks sluggishly, and everything tips on it's side.

The ride back to the Cave is a blur, and Dick doesn't let go of him the whole way. Batman's mouth is pressed into a thin line, but Jason doesn't miss the way Dad-_Bruce_- has to put the car on autopilot. Red Robin keeps checking up on him along the way, waking him up, but eventually Jason's so tired that he stops responding.

His head lolls onto Nightwing's shoulder, and Tim is silent, marble statue in the backseat. Bruce has a hand on his arm, heavy and inescapable. If he could actually do more than raise and lower his head, Jason would fuck them both up so bad for having the gall to touch him, after everything.

But no, because what he's really thinking is _they found me this time._

At the steps of Wayne Manor Bruce tries to take Jason from Dick, but he clutches his little brother to his chest and refuses to let go.

And for once, Damian is silent when they walk through the doors. His face is grave, small hands hidden in the sleeves of his slightly-too-big pajamas as he follows Pennyworth down to the med bay.

Damian was trained to take life, not to save it- but a quiet part of him wonders if maybe sometimes, they're the same thing.

But as much as he resents Todd for being the _original_ prodigal son, he doesn't want him to die.

He and Jason are too much alike.

Dick relinquishes his grip on Jason when they reach surgery, setting him down on the cold medical table. He's immediately connected to a heart monitor and an IV, groaning softly. Truth be told, Dick's amazed that he's still semi-conscious.

He sees the table soak through with red almost instantly, and his heart reaches up to grab his throat at the sound that Jason makes when he lets go. "Bruce," Dick says quietly, "I can't— I can't do this."

Batman, cape and cowl free, nods once. Pennyworth steps in to take Dick's place as surgeon, and the latter slumps into a chair in the corner of the room, eyes never leaving Jason's face.

Jason wonders if the inside of this room will be the last thing he'll ever see, that maybe it wouldn't be so bad to go this way, with people he lov-_knows _beside him.

Then the heart monitor starts to scream and that thought is gone, everything is gone, and Dick starts to scream, and Tim grabs ahold of Jason's wrist -whatever bad blood there is between them, it would be cruel for Jason to be alone- and Damian stands at the foot of his bed, his forehead crinkling.

Bruce does everything he can, but Jason leaves them quietly.

Dead.

Dick is screaming.

The boy is dead.

He never got the chance to say goodbye.

His son is dead.

He should have said goodbye.

Jason is dead.

He didn't say goodbye, because he didn't believe that Jason was going to die.

And now Bruce himself wants to die, but he can't. He won't. Instead he leans over, presses his lips to his son's cold forehead, and straightens up.

Moving mechanically over the sounds of his other sons' grief, he replaces his cape and cowl and sweeps out of the room, out of the manor.

Jason is dead (again), so now the Joker is, too.


	5. Ricochet

**Part 2. :)**

**(GUYS, I'M SO SORRY FOR PART 1 AND THE CLIFFHANGER- MY TUMBLR FRIENDS WANTED ANGST. FORGIVE ME.)**

**I promise that this chapter will be better!**

* * *

The first breath Jason draws in is painful- like surfacing from deep, pressurized water after holding his breath for too long.

It shudders through his lungs, sets fire to his chest, but he inhales further still. His upper body arches slightly off the table, inhaling deeply, until it feels like his ribcage is about to snap and split all his ribs in two. The exhale hurts less, though, so he collapses back down, breathing easier.

Breathing again.

There's a remote throbbing in his lower torso, and the IV needle is pricks at the skin of the inside of his elbow, his thoughts are hazy and slow, but he can't bring himself to care.

Jason accepts the pain; even welcomes it- as proof that he is still alive.

And he becomes vaguely aware of some kind of weight on his right shoulder, another, lighter one around his wrist, but his muscles are not cooperating and he can't turn his head to investigate. Can't see anything.

His hearing returns, flooding him with sensations- _shit, is that crying?_

He strains to comprehend his surroundings.

"Grayson." Another voice- younger, quieter. He struggles to recognize it, struggles to remember where he is, but then it clicks. The Joker, the knife, and then the Batcave. Dick carrying him in. The word belongs to Damian.

"He's dead, you have to let go." Tim's voice, now. Shaky.

_Who's dead?_

Somewhere behind his head, the heart monitor starts to beep, counting out the spaces between beats again, and the weight on Jason's shoulder unexpectedly lifts. Someone gasps, a sharp intake of breath through a watery throat. He thinks it sounds like Dick, but he can't see anything and his head is swimming, so he can't be sure.

And for a moment he panics, because all he can see is dark and _what if I am fucking dead_, but then he realizes that his eyes are still closed. Sticky with sleep, he cracks them open, long eyelashes brushing his cheek. He opens and closes his eyes a few times, and everything comes into better focus.

Sterile white walls practically gleam around him; the counters in the room covered with bloody medical equipment and ripped clothing.

Instinctively, he knows that the blood is his.

Shit.

His brothers crowd the bed, staring at him with eyes so big it's almost comical. Jason tries to smirk, to come up with something witty to say, but he comes up empty.

Dick's eyes are red, and his nose is, too. "You-"he sputters, "You were-" He drags a hand across his forehead.

"You died," Damian finishes bluntly, but his indifferent sneer is belied by the way his hands shake ever so slightly.

Tim just stands there, working his jaw in shock, unable to come up with anything to say at all, and a moment later, Jason croaks,

"'Guess I'm off patrol for this week, huh?"

After an awkward pause, Dick drops his head into his hands.

"Jason_, that's not funny_, oh my gosh," he groans, and Tim snorts; the tension broken.

Damian rolls his eyes, says, "The loss of your humor would _not_ have been deeply felt, Todd," but Jason doesn't miss the way the boy fists his hands in Jason's bed sheet.

He always knew that kid was a softy at heart.

And Dick buries his head in his little brother's shoulder again, mumbles, "_Don't ever do that again_, _little wing_," and Jason, irritated, tries to shift him away. But Dick has attached himself to Jason like a damn _koala, _and in his weakened state, he is ultimately unsuccessful.

So Jason just flops his head back down onto the pillow, noticing for the first time the slight pull of the bandages around his waist, and comforts himself with the fact that_that fucker will pay for this._

The pretender stands back a little farther than the other two, hesitant, but keeps a gentle grip on the end of the bed.

Jason blinks. "Hey, where're Bruce and Alfie?" and Tim snaps his head upright.

"Crap."

Dick sits up as well, grabbing the communicator.

"_Bruce," _he says into it, urgently, but there's static on the other end. He fiddles with it for a minute, but the crinkling noises coming from the other side

"Pick _up_, damn it," Dick snaps into it, and stands. "I'll have to get him myself."

Just then, the communicator crackles to life.

"_What?_" Batman growls from the other end, his voice rougher than usual. He sounds half strangled, and maybe he is.

"Jason's, well, he's," Dick stumbles over his words, "he's _alive_, B. Come home."

Bruce's silence says much more than any words could, and he's back in the Cave in two minutes flat.

Alfred follows him in, having gone after him, having known that Jason's death would have pushed him to unthinking, desperate measures. (He'd brought a gun with him, in case he'd spotted the Joker himself, but that secret he would take to his grave.)

Bruce crosses the room, cape snapping crisply, and crushes Jason to him.

He pretends not to notice when Jason mutters, _"'Getting soft, old man,_" in his ear, and Jason turns a blind eye to the way Bruce's eyes are red around the edges.

Jason pushes him away after a moment, or course, because as out of it as the painkillers might make him, he's not a _sap, _dammit. Also, Batman's grip had been hurting his bruised ribs.

And it's not like this changes anything, it's just. He's still pissed at Bruce, okay? Don't make a big deal out of it.

(Jason does have an image to uphold, after all.)


	6. and the room is so quiet

Sitting perfectly upright on the cold plastic chair of the med bay, Damian is a boy of fixed sneers and pale hands.

He tries to cover his shame with boisterious noise and arrogant words, but no one is fooled. His brothers know that he could have died today, two of them now in their individual rooms and the third in the bed before him.

Jason is wired and tubed up, the IV snaking it's way over his chest and up to the bag that keeps him hydrated; the mask on his face monitoring his oxygen intake.

King Croc'll do that to a person.

Damian's eyes never leave the older boy's face, and eventually the indifferent expression on his own slides away. Underneath lies the concern of a creased forehead and widened eyes, solemnly observing as the purpling bruises appear on Jason's bare arms and around his throat.

It took him a few hours to stabilize, but the medication seems to be working, now. And the only reason Damian's here is because he's finally asleep, because an alert Jason would never let him live this down.

And it's certainly _not_ because he harbors a secret worry that the insufferable man will die- not at all. He simply wants to ensure that the idiot does not smother in his sleep by accident, because that would be an unnecessary hassle.

So Damian remains motionless for hours, watching the steady numbers on the screen and the careful drip, drip, drip of the IV fluid.

Grayson comes and goes, sometimes attempting to make small talk, but he ignores him for the most part.

Eventually he leaves, ruffling Damian's sweat-stiff hair on the way out, (he hadn't bothered to shower or change) and telling him that it's okay, that Jason's going to be okay. That he can shower and sleep, because Jason's going to be fine.

But Damian doesn't budge, just stares fixedly at the slack muscles around Jason's eyes, blue veins darkening in the hollow underneath them.

When the clock reads 2:00 am, Damian pushes two chairs together, laying across them soldier-style with his arms crossed over his chest. He sleeps fitfully, waking often.

And that's good, because he's already awake when Jason croaks, "Nice to see you too, Princess," his throat raw and painful.

_"__Tt."_ He snorts to cover up his surprise, rubbing the lingering sleep out of his eyes. "I am not Timothy, you twice-damned invalid. Clearly, your senses are dulling with age."

Jason rolls his eyes, removing the oxygen mask from the bottom half of his face with bruised hands. He chokes a little when he rips out the nasal tubes, but Damian pretends not to notice.

"So, what was it this time?" Jason drawls wearily, resting his head back on the pillow.

"King Croc," Damian replies, almost conversationally.

Jason nods, as if it makes sense. "He got me pretty good, huh?" And it's a statement, not a question.

Damian nods, pauses. "You. Saved me," he says, aiming for haughty nonchalance, but falling short when his brow furrows involuntarily, giving him away. "I want to know why."

Jason chuckles, but it quickly turns into a groan, because _broken ribs, ow._

He shrugs, says, "You tell me."

Damian hesitates, carefully replacing his smirk. "It could be seen as an attempt," he says, "-a _futile _attempt, mind you- to redeem yourself for attacking Drake at Titan's Tower."

At this, Jason laughs- really laughs. He throws his head back in humor, eyes glinting.

"Not even close, demon. Not. Even. Close," he sighs, dragging a hand down his face. "Maybe you're not the son of the World's Greatest Detective, after all."

Damian _tt_s again, confused and more than a little curious.

Leaning further into the pillows, Jason's face creases a little, grows slowly tired. "Nah," he sighs, "You know why."

Damian shifts in his chair, leans slightly closer. "I can assure you, Todd, that I do _not_. Your drug-addled raving makes absolutely no sense to me."

"Yes, you do," Jason says, argumentative even with four broken ribs and a body full of bruises.

He closes his eyes, mutters, "'Cause we're just alike, you and me."

And a second later he's fast asleep again, snoring- leaving Damian to ponder the significance of his words.

Maybe Todd is less complicated than he had previously believed.


	7. joy

**For mariposablossom. :]**

* * *

Tim Drake is excellent at reading people; always has been.

His inconspicuous, unassuming manner lends itself to keen observations that others might miss- a skill that, in his line of work, aids him greatly.

But it's a double-edged sword, because that means he _always _knows when something's up with Steph. Knows when she's holding something back; when she's temporarily withholding information or working herself up to make a revelation.

Most of the time she's forthright with him- Stephanie's never been one to brood or wait for him to surmise the problem on his own. She's almost always honest (occasionally to the point of bluntness), which makes the rare occasions when she isn't, well, _unpleasant._

Unpleasant for Tim, that is. He tends to be the worrier in their relationship; errs on the side of caution. The_ extreme_ side.

Basically, in the seldom cases where Steph tries to hide something from him, Tim freaks out. Big-time.

So when she pokes her head around the corner of the computer bay, says, "Tim, can we talk?" his heart threatens to cut all ties with his rib cage and jump right into his throat. He tries to quell the sudden cold sweat, curses himself for drinking so much coffee so late at night; the adrenaline and caffeine kicking in at the same time.

(On some level his panic is understandable, because as a child those three words were almost always followed by his parents announcing another business trip or vacation -without him.)

Tim stands, his joints a little still from sitting so long, follows her upstairs.

For once she doesn't say anything, and even as Tim's in the middle of an internal panic-attack, he's not afraid that it's going to be something relationship-ending_. _He trusts her completely, and they've been through enough _we're_ _over_s and _I can't do this anymore_s to know that those never really stick.

Wedding rings tend to do that to people.

So when she settles herself seriously on the couch opposite his chair, he waits for her to speak.

"Tim, I went to see the doctor today."

Blood freezes in his veins. He hadn't known.

"And, " she continues, "Dr. Leslie said that I can't patrol with you for a while." Her voice is grave, but there's a strange spark in her eyes, a misplaced, mischievous glint.

Tim smiles nervously, but it doesn't reach his eyes- lips stretched and anxious teeth bared. _"What?"_

She shrugs, and he watches a curious expression attempt to break through her serious façade.

"Steph, what are you talking about?" Tim stumbles over his words a little, uncomprehendingly. "What's wrong?"

Another shrug, a quirk of the lips. Feigned nonchalance. "I'm all right, but I'm not going to be able to patrol with you for the rest of the month. For the rest of the year, actually."

Tim's practically hysterical at this point. "Stephanie, _what's going on?_ Are you all right?"

For some reason, she grins. "I will be," she says, "in a little over 32 weeks."

_Eight months._ Tim struggles to comprehend why she didn't just say that, people only counted in weeks when-

Oh.

_Oh._

The chair almost overturns behind him with his rapid ascent. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?" Incredulous, his hands make their way to his head. "You're-"

"Yep," Steph confirms. "Four weeks pregnant."

She beams up at him, and the sofa collapses inward slightly when he lowers himself suddenly to sit next to her.

Tim pulls her into a hug, burying his face in her long blonde hair. "You're terrible," he groans. "You really scared me for a minute, there."

Stephanie laughs affectionately. "What, you're not scared now?"

"No, I am," he assures her. "But it's an excited-scared."

She chuckles, rests her head against his throat. "You and me both, buddy."

There's a long, comfortable silence, then-

"I call dibs on naming him-or-her."

Stephanie pulls away slightly to look up at him, cheerfully replies, "Not on your life, Boy Wonder."


	8. don't you cherish me to sleep

Vicious nightmares are more commonplace in Wayne Manor than Bruce would like to admit.

Often as he tosses and turns, the sounds of screaming and thrashing will make their way down the vast hallway to his room and slip under the door with razored fingers. They bury themselves deep inside his skull like railroad spikes, coil their sharp edges around his heart. It's as much of a physical ache as it is a mental one; the tender spot at base of his neck throbbing in tandem with the fury of his guilt.

He's the reason his sons have nightmares.

Many nights -in what Bruce recognizes in himself as some sort of misplaced plea for reconciliation- he'll make his way down to whichever room the noises are coming from and stand in the doorway, in the hopes that his prescence will somehow banish the nightmares. That his formidable shadow will chase away the shadows and allow the boy to sleep in peace.

Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't- but Bruce stays regardless.

Tonight it's Jason's doorway, Jason's nightmares.

(It usually is.)

His face, so hostile in the daytime hours, usually smoothes itself out slightly when he sleeps. But tonight, his brows draw together and then back apart, over and over, lashes damp under flinching eyelids.

And as much as he might like to, Bruce doesn't wake Jason immediately. He likes to pretend it's because Jason wouldn't want him to, because he'd want to work throught it on his own, but the real reason is because he himself is a coward. Unsure of how violently the boy would respond, Bruce chooses instead to cloak himself in the shadow of the door and stand in silent vigil; a one man guard.

Every now and then, Jason shouts in his sleep, his arms twitching on the comforter. His face goes slack for a minute and Bruce thinks that maybe the nightmare has been exhausted, that he can slip away again and leave him in peace.

But Jason screws up his face again, whisper-mumbles a single word that freezes him where he stands.

"Bruce," Jason says again, his voice hoarse from the earlier screaming. Bruce's pulse crashes in around his ears, and he wonders if maybe Jason wasn't asleep at all.

A closer look disproves his suspicions- Jason's eyes are shut tightly still, as if he's trying to barricade himself against the onslaught of broken flashes and twisted dreams.

After a tense minute, Bruce returns to his place in the doorway. The shrieking of the storm outside reaches a fever pitch, and the resulting thunder makes him jump a little.

Jason doesn't wake, however, just mutters, _"Bruce,"_in his sleep once more. His voice is younger and much more vulnerable than Bruce has heard it in a very long time.

Stricken and unable to stand still any longer, he moves quietly to stand beside the boy's bed.

Bruce struggles for words momentarily, resting his hand on the edge of the bed. Eventually, all he says is, "I'm here, son," but it's enough to purge the fear from Jason's face. His expression immediately smoothes out, and he drops into a peaceful rest once again.

Finally satisfied, Bruce leaves before the sun has a chance to pull itself up over the horizon and break the dark with it's hopeful sunlit beams.


	9. and then you

**This is a super rushed update, and I can't remember whether I've already added this to FFnet- I'm just going to apologize now if that is the case.**

* * *

The first knock on Barbara's door startles her so badly that she only narrowly avoids spilling her mug of coffee right onto the beige carpet.

It's close to 12 o'clock in the morning, so the drink's decaf, but the heavy thump on the door causes her hand to jerk as if it's loaded with jittery caffeine. She steadies her hand, sets the cup down on the kitchen counter and pads on socked feet to the door.

Barbara grasps the handle, opening it with a small frown.

"Nice night, isn't it?" Nightwing says, leaning heavily against her doorframe. His face is bloodied and speckled with the beginnings of purple bruises, and his mask and uniform are torn in several places.

She takes a reflexive step backward and gasps. "What _happened_ to you?"

He grins, dazed, wavering a little where he stands. She just barely manages to catch him before he starts to collapse in the doorway.

He's bleeding heavily, but she doesn't have time to throw down a towl; resigns herself to the fact that she'll have to replace the sofa. Again.

"Where are you bleeding from?" she asks frantically. "How serious is it?"

"Just a few scratches," he groans, mostly relying on her to keep him upright. "Miscalculated a landing or two."

"Onto what, a bed of nails? A window?" She asks in disbelief, bringing him fully inside. He's heavy, almost deadweight, but she's pretty strong. Maneuvering the door shut with her ankle, Barbara deposits him on the sofa and goes for a washcloth in the kitchen, her coffee abandoned.

"Crystal chandelier, actually." He shoots her a self-deprecating smirk, but discomfort tugs at the sides of his mouth. Stretching out across the sofa scrapes against his sore muscles and scratched limbs, and he winces.

"You went on patrol without me," she accuses. "You promised you wouldn't!" After wetting the washcloth, she returns to the living room, shoves his legs over to make room for her to sit beside him.

"Hey, I've been patrolling alone longer than you," he argues, starting to sit up and then thinking better of it. "I can take care of myself."

"Which is exactly why you're currently bleeding all over my couch," Barbara deadpans, swiping at his facial cuts with the cloth.

"Okay, well." He closes his eyes. "Most of the time."

"And not that I don't enjoy having you ruin my couch, -_again_- but why didn't you just go back to the Manor?" she asks, brushing his hair over to wash off the congealed blood on his forehead. "Alfred could do a much better job of this than me."

Dick flinches when she accidentally prods a sensitive bruise in the process of removing his shredded mask, and Barbara mutters an apology.

He cracks one eye open then, says, "Your apartment's closer," grinning cheekily.

She sighs, lowers her voice minutely. "You promise you'd get some sleep tonight." He shuts his eyes again when she rests a gentle hand on his cheek to turn his face to the side, brushing at the scrapes on the other cheek.

"Wasn't tired," he mumbles, but she knows that that's Dick-speak for _I had a nightmare._

Barbara moves from cleaning his face to unzip his ruined suit a bit, peeling off his arms and upper torso to clean the torn skin there.

This isn't the first time she's done so, but her face warms anyway. Not that he'd notice, though, with his eyes shut so tightly; barricaded against either the uncomfortable brush of the cloth on his tender bruises, or the nightmares the roused him from sleep in the first place.

"Your parents again?" Barbara asks softly, pulling his face closer to work away at the dark, clotted blood matting his hair to his head. She leans forward, startles a bit when his blue eyes flicker open in response, searching her face for a moment.

"Yes," Dick replies honestly, his voice catching.

"I'm sorry."

He recovers quickly, replies, "It's okay. I tried to go back to sleep, but. I couldn't, and I was staying at the Manor to help with repairs to the Cave, so I just left out the window."

She rolls her eyes at his easy smile, because _he is so ridiculous sometimes._ Water-diluted blood runs down his face and neck when she finally works the clumps out of his hair, trailing onto the couch. "You're just too good for doors now, huh?" she quips, and runs a hand down a particularly long scratch on his forearm, making him shiver.

"Nah, it's just that I told Alfred I was going to skip patrol tonight, and if he caught me out of bed at this hour, there would be hell to pay."

Realization dawning on her, Barbara drops his arm and jumps clear off the sofa. "Oh, I see how it is -you didn't come to my apartment because it was _convenient-_you just didn't want Alfred to catch you out of bed!"

Dick blinks innocently, says, "What?" but she knows better.

"What am I going to do with you, Wonder Bread?" She rubs her eyes, pinches the bridge of her nose. "Get your lying ass in the shower and scrub the rest of this crap off yourself."

Extending a hand, she hauls him up off the sofa and onto his slightly steadier feet.

He knows better than to argue, just asks meekly, "Do you still have that change of clothes I left over here?" His bright blue eyes laugh down at her.

Pointingtoward her room with an expression of mock-frustration, she huffs, "In my closet."

He stumbles his way down the hallway, gets the clothes he'd left behind before a mission once, and hops in the shower.

His suit's completely ruined, slashed to pieces; she tosses it in the trash. The mask can probably be salvaged, so it stays. Having lost her apetite for it, she pours the rest of the now-cold coffee down the drain. Oh, well. She doesn't really need the empty calories, anyway- just likes the taste of it.

He'd given her such a scare, showing up at her door, covered and bruises and bloody, matted hair. She shivers involuntarily, wraps her arms around herself.

Less than five minutes later, he emerges, covered in pinkish scrapes but otherwise clean. His wet hair drips onto his shirt, and Barbara has to smile when he shakes it out, like a dog after a bath.

"Gross!" she laughs, throws up her hands to protect herself from the spray. He grins, then collapses back down onto her couch; as a temporary fix, she had flipped the cushions to the non-bloodied undersides.

Barbara walks over to him, sits in the armchair opposite the couch. "Call Batman, can you bunk over?" she asks sarcastically.

"Count on it, Gordon," he says, throwing an arm over his eyes.

She sighs, turns off the lights, and settles back down in the chair for the night.

After a minute, Dick murmurs, "Babs?"

"Yeah, Dick."

"Thanks."

She mumbles the truth- that it's no problem; that he'd do the same for her, and rests her cheek in the corner of the chair contentedly. Exhausted, they both drift off momentarily.

(And somehow -she's not saying how, mind you- by morning, she ends up curled beside him on the ruined sofa.)

_how my days, they spin me 'round_

_how my days, they let me down_

_and then there's you_

_and then there's you_

_and then there's you_


	10. justifiable

**I tried to unravel Bruce and Jason's thought processes behind this particular scene in Under the Red Hood... The key word here is 'tried.'**

* * *

The gun-wielding thug shifts the weapon in his right hand, pointing it at Jason and tightening a finger on the trigger. "Don't move, or I'll-"

"You'll what, shoot me?" Jason almost laughs. As _if._

He pounces, knocking the gun to the floor and smoothly kicking the man's legs out from under him, sending him crashing down.

Immediately, bullets start to fly, but Jason engages them with ease, dodging left and right. "Twenty rounds a second, and you were _still_ too slow," he quips, the last man hitting the ground with a thump.

Jason looks to Batman for approval; but instead hears a handgun's safety being taken off from the darkened, adjoining room. He'd missed one.

_"I'm_ not slow, punk."

The remaining goon fires once, but the bullet has barely left the gun by the time Batman's batarang catches the barrel. It causes a small explosion, and the man screams. A second later, Jason's fluid elbow cracks him across the chest and he goes down- cursing and clutching at his broken collarbone.

_"Robin!"_

Even in the close quarters of the shoddy Gotham apartment, Batman's growl manages a weak echo. He steps toward Jason, his form casting a large shadow of the distorted form of the man on the rough cement floor.

He shoots the boy a look, which is met with defensive hostility.

"He had a gun! I did what I had to do."

Batman crouches over the now-unconscious, anonymous henchman for a brief moment before straightening up again.

"We'll discuss this later."

"But I-"

_"Later."_

And now it's later, as Jason slumps almost dejectedly against the outside of the Batmobile.

"He had a gun. I did what I had to do," he says, hoping at least to rile a response from Bruce- he can't stand the silent treatment, and he's much more comfortable with being shouted at than ignored.

Today's his lucky day.

Bruce whirls about, comes very close. "You shattered his collarbone!"

Bruce's voice is loud and rough, but Jason isn't intimidated in the least. "He's a drug-dealing pimp," he growls back, "I didn't think I had to prop up a few pillows before I took him out."

"We needed him." His voice a few octaves lower, Bruce lets out a frustrated sigh. "He would've talked, but you put him into shock."

Surprised at the sudden change in tone, Jason ducks his head; tucks his chin toward his chest ever so slightly. "I-" His brow furrows. "I'm sorry. That was dumb." He pauses, expression tightening again as a brushes past. "But he deserved it."

Jason walks out of the cave without a second glance, and Bruce wonders if he should go after the boy.

But what would he say- what could he say to assure Jason that he knows that the man _had_ deserved it, without encouraging this particular brand of justice in the future?

Jason's right, but Bruce doesn't go after him.


	11. for a boy, for a body in the garden

**A/N: Prompted by Dextra2. Trigger warning: Contains mentions/details of a panic attack.**

* * *

Jason's only half-awake when the it hits, but the unexpected burst of terror claws its way across his chest with sharp, grasping fingers and a hoarse shout that he doesn't even hear.

Head and hands almost completely numb, he sits up in bed and tries to suck in a breath, but his chest is closing up again and he's having sudden difficulty getting a full breath. A slippery bead of sweat trickles down his temple, stinging the side of his face like ice water.

And there's something blocking Jason's throat; impeding his airway until he's reaching for breath with light-headed gasps.

He thinks that maybe he's smothering, and his hands are tingling, shaking too badly when he brings them to his bowed head for him to think straight or even turn on the light. It's an irrational blossom of fear -Wayne Manor is one of the safest places on Earth- but that doesn't make the feeling of impending horror any less potent.

_Must've been another nightmare,_ he thinks dryly, but really it's _God help me make it stop please make it stop please I can't._

A brisk, sharp knock on the door interrupts his frantic pleading, sends his heart into an unreasonable staccato beat, and he jumps to his feet when the door cracks open.

"Jason?" Dick pokes his head in the door, brow furrowed. "You all right?"

And Jason tries to reply, but all that gets past his teeth is a shaky exhale.

Taking in his brother's shaking hands and obvious distress, Dick orders, "Sit down." He shuts the door behind him and walks over to where Jason perches on the edge of the bed, says gently, "Put your head between your knees."

For once, Jason obeys without question, and the bed squeaks a little when Dick moves over to sit next to him. He raises his hand hesitantly to place it lightly on Jason's back, a gesture of reassurance.

He pretends not to hear his protests, or feel the way his brother's back trembles. And it takes the better part of an hour, but eventually the blood returns to Jason's head and his hands steady a bit, his breaths evening out. Dick pulls his hand away when his brother straightens up with a deep breath.

Silence clouds the room, and Jason clears his throat several times, awkwardly, avoiding eye contact. Neither of them say anything, and eventually they settle into comfortable, reflective quiet.

After a while, Dick's the one clearing his throat. "Panic attack?"

It's not so much of a question as it is a statement.

There's a crease between Jason's brows, but he nods. "Had a nightmare."

Dick bumps Jason's shoulder with his own, lightly. "Want to talk about it?"

Jason snorts, but not derisively.

"Not really."

"Okay," Dick replies simply, and they fall back into companionable silence.

_felt it in my fist, in my feet, in the hollows of my eyelids  
shaking through my skull, through my spine and down through my ribs _

_and all my bones began to shake, my eyes flew open  
and all my bones began to shake, my eyes flew open_

no more dreaming of the dead as if death itself was undone  
no more calling like a crow for a boy, for a body in the garden


	12. come on down like the rain

As soon as the Gotham-scented rain starts to trickle down the back of her neck, Barbara Gordon pulls her the hood of her sweatshirt up and over her head. She shudders a bit in the chilly air, tucks her hands inside the slightly-damp pocket of her hoodie with a breath that huffs white mist into the dusky air. The cleansing downpour will be good for Gotham City in the morning -the rain will turn over the accumulating stench of twisted streets and the crooked people in them- but just now, she's not as glad for it as usual.

Wanting to squeeze in a brisk, healthy walk before the foul weather hit, Barbara had only found herself allowed out of Wayne Manor after a reluctant Alfred had extricated the promise that she would call them for a ride if she found herself stuck in the storm before being able to hail a cab on the closest possible street.

She'd barely gotten to the outskirts of the city before the deluge had begun, and she was paying the price for desiring a nice walk before nightfall. Her sleeves soaking quickly through with the rain, Barbara thinks wryly, _If I ever needed more proof that no good deed goes unpunished, this is it, _pulling back her hood momentarily to twist her dripping hair into a tight bun at the nape of her neck before gathering the fabric back over the top of her head.

The rain comes down impossibly harder, pattering against the cracked streets and splashing straight through the soft arms of Barbara's sweatshirt and drenching the tee shirt underneath. She huffs a little in frustration at her own hardheadedness and reaches out again to try and signal an empty cab.

But they're in short supply tonight, apparently, so she just hunches further into her Gotham Knights hoodie -a present from Dick- and thinks that maybe she'll just have to wait this one out. Storms blow over relatively quickly anyway, right? No need bother Alfred for a ride- she's practically home, and she has a proud, childish need to avoid his fond _I told you so _mustache twitch at this particular moment, even though she knows he'd be more than happy to drive her home.

However, her pride and her patience wear thin after several more minutes under the eaves of a tall building, futilely attempting to both hail a cab and dodge the freezing raindrops. With an exasperated sigh, Barbara pulls her phone from her pocket, weighing her options.

It should be a no brainer, really.

Soaked to the bone, Barbara agonizes over her limited array of choices for a moment more, before unlocking her phone and punching in a number. She's more than mildly irritated with herself now, trying to shield the screen from the downpour… when abruptly, unexpectedly- the torrent of rain falling on her head and shoulder ceases completely. Bewildered, she looks up, and then around.

"Forget something?"

Grayson.

Completely dry, he flashes her a bright smile, shifts the massive black umbrella to cover them both a little better. It's a wonderful escape from the heavy storm, and Barbara'd be heavily tempted to hug him- if only his voice wasn't so smug.

But it is, so she's not.

Not too much, anyway.

"Dick?" she sputters. "What are you- How did-"

"I tracked the GPS in your phone," he replies with a straight face, and she smacks him on the arm. Umbrella or no, that's just ridiculous.

"You did _not_," she threatens, half-serious, and Dick's flat expression cracks as starts to laugh.

"I'm kidding. Alfred sent me out to get you home a couple minutes after you left. Would've been here sooner," he shakes a few droplets of rain from his hair, "but there was traffic on the bridge."

Barbara sighs in relief. "So you brought your car?" She looks around. "Where did you park it?"

"Well, not _exactly_," Dick hedges. Barbara raises an eyebrow.

"It wasn't raining when I left, either; I brought the umbrella just in case." He coughs. "I walked, too."

She groans. "So what you're saying is we're stuck here until we cave and get Alfred to get us or we get a cab -which, by the way, is harder than it looks?"

For some reason, he finds this hilarious, tries to smother a laugh in the back of his hand. "What?" Barbara asks. And frustrated as she is with the whole debacle, she laughs a little, too. "It _is_!"

"Not for me," Dick replies cheekily, and dodges her immediate, half-hearted smack.

"What, because you're _The Dick Grayson, son of billionaire playboy philanthropist Bruce Wayne, _you get special cab privileges or something?" And now she's chuckling, throwing stuff out in the hopes that something will stick, but he started it, so.

Dick pauses, considering that for a moment. "There should be a _Captain _in there somewhere," he says, seriously.

Uncontrollable laughter bubbles up in her chest, and despite the unpleasantness of the weather around her, Barbara suddenly feels quite warm in their protected little air-pocket beneath the umbrella. They laugh so hard that tears run down their faces, even though it wasn't even that funny. And by the time Dick finally, _finally _manages to hail them a cab, they're leaning against each other to keep from falling down.

The cab driver ushers them in, looks at the pair of them -faces pink with mirth, eyes shiny bright- a bit strangely, but they don't notice. Dick's hair is absolutely drenched by now, and Barbara quells his attempt to shake it out in the back compartment of the cab. "Don't!" she half-shrieks, and the cabbie casually rolls up the divider between the front seat and themselves when he thinks they're not looking.

It takes almost the whole ride back to Barbara's house for them to calm down, and they get stuck in rainy-day traffic so by the time they arrive, they're both starving.

Which is why, when Dick walks her to the doorway under the monstrous umbrella, she invites him in.


	13. winter is coming and you're stuck here

**A short drabble inspired by one of those adorable imagineyourotp posts on tumblr. :3**

* * *

I don't understand why you insist on staying here," Dick shivers, standing in the middle of Barbara's living room as he briskly rubs his hands up and down his arms for warmth. The apartment she shares with her father is as cold as ice, and he imagines that he can see his breath in the frigid air. "Almost everyone else is gone until they fix the heating."

Barbara chuckles a little, looks up from lighting the fireplace under the mantle. "Where would we go?" she asks. "And it's not _that_ cold."

Dick chokes a little. "Uh, I beg to differ!" he retorts, pulling his winter coat tighter around his shoulders. "It's like, 50 below in here!"

She turns back to the fireplace, but not before he sees her amused eye-roll. "Huh," she remarks, amused. "I never took you for a sissy, Grayson."

Dick glares at her back, mutters something about _avoiding hypothermia does not qualify as sissy behavior_ and pulls his coat's lined hood around his face.

The fireplace blazes with sudden light, and Barbara tosses the match inside before closing the grate. From the wicker basket beside the T.V., she grabs two fuzzy blankets and tosses one to him. Dick sheds his outer coat, but keeps his jacket on when he wraps himself up, burrito-style, and collapses ungracefully onto the living room sofa. She follows suit, swaddling herself in her own fluffy blanket and cuddling up to his side.

They watch the flames twist and turn behind the smoke screen until, finally warm, they fall asleep.


	14. and the heart is hard to translate

Padding his way down the hall on bare feet, Jason plays absently with the hem of his tee shirt as he makes his way into the Manor's spacious kitchen; tangles his fingers in one of it's many unraveling threads. His stomach growls: it's been close to twelve hours since he's eaten, and he crosses straight to the refrigerator after passing through the doorway.

He hums some Kansas under his breath as he gathers ingredients for a breakfast sandwich, tries to ignore the weird pit that he still gets in his stomach whenever he stays over at Wayne Manor. Reaching across the counter, he snags a loaf of bread and walks over to place it on the kitchen island beside the condiments and the butter knife.

On the way over, he accidentally slams his foot into the side of the island. "Dammit," Jason hisses, his ankle throbbing painfully.

There's a pause, and a _very significant_ throat clearing from the doorway. "Ah, sorry, Alfie," Jason hastily apologizes, with a guilty half-smile. "Didn't see you there."

"I believe that's another quarter in the swear jar, Master Jason," Alfred reprimands, the tone belied by the fondle twinkle in his sharp blue eyes. "Do you kiss your grandfather with that mouth?"

Jason's jaw drops slightly, but he's quick to cover it up. "Uh. No?" comes his bewildered reply.

"Well, you should." Alfred takes the loaf of bread out of Jason hands and sets it on the counter, tapping his own cheek.

Loath to refuse his surrogate grandfather, Jason inclines his lean frame in Alfred's direction and drops a quick peck on the man's wrinkled cheek.

Grinning crookedly, an embarrassed Jason turns away- but doesn't miss the affectionate smile that's crept its way across the old butler's face.


	15. you've got the love

**Just a little preboot!Teen Titans Tim/M'gann love for maripoa-blossom. c:**

* * *

Sleepily bumping his way across the kitchen of Titans Tower, pajama-clad Tim Drake doesn't notice M'gann standing by the stove until he nearly runs into her. He almost crashes into her as he rounds the corner, taking in the glowing 6:15 on the clock behind her.

"Oh, sorry," he mumbles, rubbing blearily at his eyes with the back of his hand. He wavers a little on his feet, exhausted, and she reaches out a hand to steady him.

"It's all right," she replies, concern creeping into her voice. "Long night?"

He snorts, which quickly morphs into a yawn. "Understatement of the century."

She shoots him a sympathetic little half-grin, says something that Tim doesn't quite catch, still in his sleep-stupor.

"Uh, what?" he mutters, rubbing at his eyes again.

M'gann laughs outright at him now, that special kind of laugh she has that's playful but not malicious. "I said, are you hungry? I was going to make pancakes."

"Oh. I- yeah, sure, thanks," Tim stumbles a little over the words and his cheeks redden a bit. He hopes she doesn't notice. "Can I, you know, help with anything?"

Her eyes brighten a little at his offer. "Of course!" she smiles, and Tim grins back, a little shyly.

For the next fifteen minutes or so, the kitchen is filled with the sound of warming pancakes and the savory scent of the thick batter. The smell of it combined with the pleasantness of being around M'gann are enough to completely sever Tim's ties to sleep, and gradually the kitchen's almost _loud _with their lighthearted conversational banter.

Breakfast's almost ready when he asks her why she's down in the kitchen so early in the morning. "Couldn't sleep," she replies simply, quirking one side of her mouth up almost comically.

"Yeah, me neither," Tim says, drags a hand across the back of his neck, feeling slightly awkward.

They break eye contact when she leans over to fiddle with the pancake, and he's surprised when, after a pause, she asks, "Nightmares?"

"No," he answers honestly. "Just, you know, stress. And everything."

"Yeah, I know," M'gann answers softly. A moment later, though, she brightens. "But everybody deserves a day off, right? And it's the weekend."

"Yeah," Tim says again, and it's as if a small weight has been lifted from his back -if only for a short time. He looks over at her before busying himself with helping her carry the plates over to the table -even though he knows she could just levitate them over. He doesn't mind doing it, and he likes to feel useful.

They sit for a long time at the table, talking and laughing and try to ignore the idea that tomorrow, things will be business as usual, kicking ass and taking names.

And, of course, the pancakes are delicious.


	16. kiss with a fist

**In which Jason apologizes to Tim for ****_The Incident_**** at Titans Tower. **

* * *

The flickering light of the TV washes across Tim's face in uneven patterns as he searches aimlessly for something to watch. He sighs, exhausted and altogether much too restless for sleep. After a few more blips of bland high-school dramas and overwrought lovers' quarrels, he finds the CW and settles on a Supernatural marathon. Nice and safe.

Tilted over sideways on the couch, Tim hears faint footfalls in the hallway and knows that Jason's lurking in the hallway, can practically see him standing there- one hand on the doorframe and a dubious expression on his face.

He recognizes the slight hesitation in the rustle of Jason's jacket in the doorway, calls quietly, "You can come in, if you want."

And Tim half expects Jason to comment on his show of choice when he finally enters all the way into the room, but Jay's quiet. Too quiet, maybe, but Tim's hardly one to judge, even if he _does_ notice that his brother seems to side-eye him a bit more than usual.

Dead air hangs in the room in next few minutes as they each pretend to watch the show, but it only takes a record time of three minutes and forty-two seconds for Jason to crack the silence.

"Tim."

His eyes widen a fraction, but his voice is level when he responds. "Hmm?" As if this isn't the first time Jason's ever called him something other than _Drake_ or _Babybird_ or -his personal favorite- _Pretender_. As though TV watching -_civil_ TV watching, at that- is a normal three a.m. activity for them.

Jason clears his throat. "You remember when I- when I was first back, I went to Titan's Tower-"

Well. Tim was not expecting _that._

He stiffens, the back of his throat growing dry, carefully keeping his eyes fixed on the TV screen. "Hmm," he says again, not quite a denial.

Jason fidgets a little, fiddles a bit with the edge of his jacket. Says, "I was thinking."

In the pause that follows, Tim is highly tempted to reply with something along the lines of _that must have been quite the experience for you_, but. He'll wait until Jason starts calling him Replacement for that.

And Jason's shoulders go taut, curling in on himself like a protective shield. He huffs out a sigh, says, "I never really- I guess I never really apologized, did I?"

Tim's head goes completely numb, causes him to reply, sharp, "What?"

"I just- I was messed up, okay?" He crosses his arms, defensive. "But what I did to you was wrong, and." He stops again, studies the carpet with sudden fascination. "I'm sorry."

Tim doesn't know what to say -truth is, he stopped waiting for an apology a long time ago- so he just bumps Jason's shoulder with his own. "S'okay," he replies simply.

Jason shoots him this tight, troubled smile. "No, it's not. I… wasn't always the nicest guy in the world to you, Drake."

Tim shifts so that while he's still facing the television, his body's turned in Jason's direction. Thoughtful, he replies, "You came back to life, Jason. _After_ you were murdered. That was a lot to digest." He coughs, self conscious. "I get it."

Jason laughs, but it's not his loud, deep laugh. It's sharp, and small, and self-deprecating.

"Damn it, Tim," he groans, dropping his head into his hands. "Would you quit being so damn understanding all the time? I don't know how to deal with that shit."

Tim snorts, and Jason adds earnestly, "Can't you just hit me, or something?"

Tim laughs at that, really laughs, until all the tension finally drains from Jason and the room.

"Can I take a rain check?" he asks. "I'm sure I'll want to use a free hit on you _someday_." Jason guffaws, and Tim grins, settling back into the comfortable support of the couch corner.

It's later -much later, once the pair have them have split into their separate rooms for the night- that he realizes that what he said to Jason is, in fact, the truth.


	17. april 27th

**A/N: April 27th is Jason's death-day.**

* * *

Jason rolls his shoulders, beginning to get uncomfortably warm under his well-worn leather jacket.

In Gotham, where thermostats hover in the 60s until mid-May, a sunny day like today feels unseasonably warm- despite the fact that it's technically been spring for almost a month now.

He shrugs the jacket off, slings it over the back of the slightly grungy park bench he's half-sprawled across. It's one of Gotham's smaller parks, several park benches and picnic tables scattered across limp, mangy grass. There are nicer places than this one, but Jason's always had a particular affection for this park in particular. His mom used to take him here when he was small -before she got sick- and coming here feels. Well, better. Closer to her.

Jason reclines back across the bench, his lean frame several inches too long for it, ankles dangling off the edge. It's peaceful here, far from anyone or anything that could possibly dredge up the memories he's trying very hard to suppress. He suspects that -no matter how many years go by- this particular day is always going to be a struggle.

And normally, he'd be hitting the bar by now, drinking himself into numbness, but not this year. For some reason -and for the first time- Jason doesn't want to. Not this time.

He'd wandered aimlessly around the back hallways of the Manor for a while, carefully avoiding his brothers, Bruce, and Alfred -though, somehow, he suspects the latter of the three knew exactly where he was the entire time- before slipping out the front door in a moment of quiet and letting his feet roam. And they'd led him here, so. Here he is.

Jason slings an arm over his eyes, shading his eyes from the sunlight that's just beginning to peek through the sparse leaf canopy above him. He stays that way for a while, letting the sun warm his bare arms and turn his inky hair a few shades lighter.

It's hours later when he's finally roused from his gentle doze, the shrill laughter of a few small children grabbing onto the slippery edges of his sleep and pull him awake. Blinking rapidly to abate the dryness in his eyes, Jason pulls himself into an upright position and shakes his head a few times to clear away any lingering cobwebs. Light eyes tracking the sun, he approximates the time to be around four- and promptly feels a bit silly, remembering the watch wrapped around his wrist.

It's half past three, and Jason pulls out his phone to check for messages, utterly unsurprised to see that he has, in fact, 23 missed calls and 10 texts- almost all of them from Dick. For all intents and purposes, Dick's a helicopter parent with a severe case of the momma bear complex, well-intentioned but smothering.

Jason quirks a lip, slips the phone back into the pocket of his jeans without reading any of them. As he does so, the fine hairs on the back of his neck begin to prickle, and he instinctively masks his expression. Raising his head, his sharp blue eyes casually survey the park, only to see-

Is that _Tim?_

Sitting less than 300 meters away, on the end of the park opposite to him? Jason can't quite tell for sure, but then the Tim-doppelgänger turns a steady gaze on him- yep, it's Tim.

Figures.

Jason huffs out a sigh, lifts a hand to wave the kid over. Says, when he's in earshot, "Dick send you to find me?"

"No," Tim replies calmly, sitting on the opposite end of the bench.

Jason's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. "Really?"

Tim nods. Says, "Dick doesn't know where you are. I didn't tell him." He stretches his arms a bit, rubs at a bruise on his forearm. "I haven't been here all that long."

"Oh." Jason pauses, bemused. Leaning back against the bench again, he says, a bit awkwardly, "Well. How did you know I'd be here?"

"I have my ways," Tim replies sagely, and Jason grins. "You're a little shit, you know that?"

Tim snorts. "You were smart to get out of the house when you did," he remarks. "Dick wanted to bake you a cake, Bruce was pacing, Damian was pacing because _Bruce_ was pacing, and Alfred…" His brow furrows. "Actually, I have no idea what Alfred was doing, and somehow, that worries me more."

Jason groans. "Is that all?"

Tim ponders that for a minute before replying, "Oh, I almost forgot- Stephanie dropped by a couple hours ago. Said something about even-numbered Robins sticking together? I don't know, but I think she left a care package in your room- the entire hallway smells like waffles."

Jason drops his head into his hands. "Shit. You guys go all-out, don't you?"

Tim sighs. "Jason, you do realize that they do the same things every year, right?" he asks, fidgeting a little on the bench.

"Yeah, I guess." Pause. "But, uh, he clears his throat after a moment, self-consciously, "Seriously- what are you _doing_ here?"

Tim sighs. "I came to make sure you didn't do anything stupid -well, not _too _stupid-" He crosses his arms, a little defensive. "Or self-destructive, or whatever."

Feigning offense, Jason tilts his head up, says, "Your lack of faith wounds me, Drake," to which Tim responds by rolling his eyes. It's quiet for a few moments, as Gotham sings them her regular tune, screeching cars and mid-afternoon traffic and people rushing to get home.

Jason shrugs. "I think this is the first year that I've actually spent it sober, so. I'd say that's a step up from last year, huh?"

"Yeah," Tim nods. Adds -head ducked a little- "And I came to see if you were. Okay. I guess."

Surprised, Jason raises an eyebrow. "Well, I-" he stumbles a bit, not quite sure exactly how to respond, "That was nice, I g-"

Tim side-eyes him for a long moment, before finally taking pity on him. "You're welcome, Jason."

Rubbing a hand across the back of his neck, Jason gets quiet, but it's a comfortable one. They're both good at silence.

And it's after dark when they finally get back to Wayne Manor- where, to Jason's abject horror, he discovers that Dick did, in fact, bake him a cake.


	18. heavy in your arms

No matter the steady pattern of his chest compressions or how tightly Jason holds the makeshift bandages at Tim's chest, red soaks onto the floor and trails downward with the slope of the floor. Tim's blood stains the front of his costume a slightly-darker hue, pooling under his back and spreading rapidly.

Ignoring his own minor injuries, Jason works quickly, efficiently wrapping Damians's shredded cape tightly around Red Robin's torso despite his groaning protests. "Hold still," is all Jason says when Tim starts to squirm in pain, gently pressing on the teen's shoulder to keep him steady as he carefully ties the makeshift bandages.

He double knots the ends -frayed by his serrated knife, which he'd used to cut them- and reaches up to readjust the edges of his mask. He'd lost his helmet somewhere along the way, but Jason can't remember exactly when or where that had been.

It hardly matters.

He lifts Tim into his arms, grimly unsurprised when his suspicions are validated- the teen weighs next to nothing, all sharp angles and bird-light bones. Most of Tim's cowl is torn away, ragged edges and damp eyelashes framing pale blue irises. "Damian-" he rasps, wincing, struggling to move himself into an upright position; a cough hovering around the outsides of his lungs. "Is he- Did I-"

"He'll be okay, Replacement. You got there in time," Jason interrupts, and pauses mid-stride to shift him into what he hopes is a more comfortable position. "Now relax, would you? You're making it worse." Jason strives for a confident tone, but he's actually a bit worried about the kid -_damn,_ but that's a lot of blood- and adjusts his pace accordingly.

Tim coughs again, and Jason could swear that he hears little bits rattling around inside him, minuscule pieces detaching from bones and clattering into the wrong places. Tim's slightly too-long fringes of black hair rustle behind his head when it comes to rest against Jason's shoulder, his muscles finally giving out on him. "Cave?" he mumbles through a bloody mouth, eyes flicking up and down and all around, as if trying to come to terms with the gravity of the situation. He attempts to sit up again, mumbles, "I c'n walk-"

"No way in hell, Drake," Jason replies absently, carrying him through the warehouse doorway and over to where his brothers and the Batmobile wait, the latter's engine revving impatiently. "I've got you, Tim," he says, quietly, and the teen finally relaxes, his head slumping back onto Jason's shoulder as he succumbs to his wounds and the sweet call of unconsciousness.

**(to be continued)**


	19. sweet dreams

Damian hovers in the doorway of the med bay, almost reluctantly. He plays with a loose string hanging from the end of his tee shirt, unconsciously twisting and unraveling it even longer. After a moment's hesitation, he forges ahead, moves into the room on careful, catlike feet- as if a misplaced step or a bare brush of sneakers against tile might wake its inhabitant.

Brown's brilliant hair spills in soft rivers across her pillow, brightening the drab off-white of the high thread-count sheets. Damian's sharp eyes study the way the stuttering fall and swell of her ribcage rustles the shivering strands ever so slightly against her face, taking in the pale flutter of her eyelashes against her cheekbones and the distinct lack of color in her face.

Instead of their usual rosy luster, her cheeks are marred by the dull purples of forming bruises, the soft planes of her features disrupted by a transparent tube attached to her nose to assist her breathing.

Assist her breathing.

She shouldn't need help_ breathing_.

The thought itches at Damian, deepening his unconscious frown and making him roll his shoulders in an attempt to abate the itch between his shoulder blades. He and Dick and made it in time to rescue her, but only just. There'd been a knife, and a staggering number men with guns. _Overkill_, for a girl like Brown, and the injustice of it burned, a red-hot flame in his chest.

If they'd been minutes later -seconds, even- the white sheet might have had to have been pulled over her head at this moment in time, instead of tucked gently under her arms.

Although Grayson had tried to convince him that his guilt was misplaced, Damian feels responsible for this, in part. For choosing patrol with his eldest brother over Batgirl. He hadn't thought- hadn't considered- this. Like a fool, he'd rationalized the pit in his stomach away, and St-_Brown-_ had paid the price.

But Damian is the progeny of the Wayne-al Ghul households, and, as such, refuses to wallow in shame or self-pity. Instead, his energy will be focused on correcting his mistakes, and nothing else.

He approaches the side of her bed on hushed feet, eyebrows drawing together at the dusky pallor of her skin. She's as still and silent as death, and for a moment he freezes, wonders if, maybe-

But Brown shifts a bit in her sleep just now, whimpering softly, and Damian begins to breathe again. The I.V. line pulling painfully at the inside of her arm. He reaches over to readjust it, pulls the I.V stand closer to create slack in the line, and her brow relaxes. She shifts again, and a lock of sunny hair to falls on top of her nose. Self-consciously, Damian glances around himself before extending the same cautious hand to brush it carefully behind her ear.

Brown starts, and Damian yanks his hand back just in time to see her pale eyes shiver open. She rasps something he can't quite catch, and coughs into her pillow. Repeats, _"Damian?"_

"I-" he stumbles, "Yes, are you blind?"

Her eyelids are starting to slide closed again, but the daft woman struggles to sit up anyway. Says, "Where- Bruce? An' Dick?"

"They are fine. Lie still, you'll exacerbate your injuries," he orders, and Brown, sleep-slippery and on heavy medication, complies. She's practically asleep before her head hits the pillow, and Damian snorts. Incorrigible.

He extricates himself from her side and settles in the chair beside the wall. "ليلة سعيدة و أحلام أسعد," Damian says quietly, and his watch begins.

_Good night and sweet dreams._


	20. wax on, wax off

**For batmanfan2012 on tumblr, who requested Daddy!Bats.**

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With a sigh equal that's equal parts irritation and resignation, Jason shifts aside a pile of clutter, pulling out various pieces of apparel and assorted knick-knacks in attempt to find his bedroom floor. Muttering under his breath, he rediscovers two leather jackets, several knives, one shirt -still sweat-stiff from last Wednesday's patrol- and, weirdly enough, Dick's copy of Jane Eyre- but there's no sign of his extra helmet anywhere.

Having thoroughly searched the floor, he moves his hands under his mattress, feeling around in the cavity beneath. No, not there either. He remembers stashing it somewhere safe… too safe, maybe. He seems to have outwitted himself.

Jason squints at the clock on his bedside table -ten minutes until he wants to start patrol- and proceeds to lift the heavy mattress clear off the bed, just to be sure it's not hiding in one of the darkened corners beneath the bed frame. Nope.

He groans, letting the mattress thump back down.

And rummaging in the closet proves to be just as tedious and unfruitful as the rest of his room, but Jason is determined to find his helmet. He could go in just a domino -he wears one under the mask, anyway- but he prefers the security of the helmet, the extra layer of protection. Ever since his return trip from the great beyond, he's gone to great lengths to his insides _inside_.

Recurring crowbar nightmares will do that to you.

Jason's sliding a box of ammo out of one corner when he accidentally bumps his head on a higher shelf, sending a few of its contents clattering down onto him. He hisses, rubbing the back of his head, and reaches to retrieve the object that had made sudden contact with it.

It's an old VHS tape, scuffed and a bit dirty, dust clinging to the sleeve from years of disuse.

Curiously, he flips turns it over in his hands to read the title.

_The Karate Kid._

The memories are instantaneous and nostalgia-tinted: hours upon hours of sick days and nights off spent on this movie, Jason sprawled across the living room sofa and Bruce in the armchair. He'd loved this movie, before. And it had been doubly precious; a movie shared between two lives, carried over from his life with his mom and later with Bruce.

Unconsciously, his mouth has turned up at one corner, and he can't seem to completely wipe it away. Brushing off the lingering debris, he rights himself, still staring at the old movie.

"All right, Jason?" Bruce hesitates under the doorframe, brows drawn. Unsure if he's intruding.

Jason's head snaps upright. He hadn't even heard him approach.

"M'fine, B," he recovers quickly. "Just… looking for my extra helmet."

Bruce can hear the smile in his voice, says evenly, "What have you got there?"

"Oh, I just-" Jason pauses, holding up the movie with a reminiscent half-grin. "Remember this?"

Bruce squints to see the title. It takes a moment, but recognition dawns on his face and the corners of his lips slant toward the ceiling. "Of course. You must have made me watch it with you upwards of a hundred times."

Jason chuckles, rubs a sheepish hand over the back of his neck. "Guess so."

After a moment of reflection, Bruce clears his throat. "Are you. Patrolling with Dick tonight?"

Jason shakes his head. "Not tonight. I was gonna go solo, but I can't find my helmet. Are you and the dem-_Damian_- going?"

"No," Bruce replies, with a funny look that Jason can't quite decipher. It looks… smug, almost. "He's on patrol with Batgirl."

With a nod, Jason looks back down at the VHS. "You know," he ponders, slowly, "I think we still have that VHS player around here somewhere."

"Hmm," Bruce agrees.

"I… look. I was thinking…" Jason falters for a moment before regaining his footing. "Do you want to see if we can find it? I haven't seen this movie in ages."

Bruce quirks a lip, hands in his pockets.

"I could be persuaded, Jason."

And he is.


	21. no more dreaming

Barbara finds him on the rooftop of a long-abandoned apartment building, the azure bird on his chest already so saturated with his blood that the symbol itself seems to bleed.

The frigid Gotham air whips her hair and mind into a frenzy; she's a mess of tangled locks and anxious thoughts.

Dick's nearly shredded mask rips the air from her lungs. She kneels at his side, clutching at his hand with one of hers and assessing the damage with the other. Her head feels foggy, and later she won't be able to remember much of these minutes but the soft, sharp sounds of fractured bones and the overwhelming smell of copper.

The concrete beneath her knees is rough and cold, and her gloves are torn in the places where they gripped the side of the apartment complex on the way up.

"Dick, stay with me," she begs when his eyelashes start to quiver, "Stay with me._ Please._"

Crimson mars the corners of his faint smile, wonderful and terrible. The drying blood that clings to corners of his lips cracks open again when he says, "No real names in the field, Batgirl. You know the rules." He coughs, too weak to wipe away the gore that spills down the planes of his cheekbones and into his costume's collar.

Barbara does it for him, using the hand not pressed to his wound to brush the blood from his skin with the edge of her cape. "Br-_Batman_ will be here soon," she promises, but her voice betrays her in the middle of the sentence. She's close to choking, or vomiting, maybe.

Dick's squeezes her hand with as much strength as he can muster, but his eyes are drifting as he fades in and out of consciousness.

Barbara takes her hand from his chest to shred her cape in two for bandages, thankful for once for such strong, flexible material. She wraps it around his torso, swearing under her breath when she has to lift him to slide it under his body.

Dick's undamaged eye focuses on her face, and he rests a surprisingly steady hand on the edge of her cheek. "I'm sorry about this," is the last thing he says to her, and her throat finally releases the tears gathering just beyond her tongue.

"No, please, look at me, please," Barbara begs, but his hands are icy and his face is marble.

And suddenly, she sees him in her mind's eye, back when he was just a skinny kid in fish-scale shorts and a brilliant cape. She watches his life play in front of her eyes- the way he looked at her when she walked into his thirteenth birthday party -"Oh, hey, Barb, when did you get here?"- the set of his shoulders when he introduced himself as Nightwing, and the look on his face when she told him she'd known it was him behind the mask from the moment she met him as Robin.

Her chest feels like it's going to burst, and she finally breaks under the weight of the realization that she'll never see his bright eyes or hear his too-loud, obnoxious laughter ring through the Cave again. _Damn_ it.

"No, _please_," she says, but her slippery gloves are unable to completely muffle the sound of her screaming.

-

"No, _no_," she mutters again, arms suddenly thrashing under silky sheets- and a corded arm around her waist pulls her right out of the dreaming world.

The warmth jars Barbara awake. The heavy drum in her breast speeds up… and then slows as she gropes blindly behind her, recognizes the limb. Her body goes lax, and she gradually begins to separate reality away from her dreaming world. Her rib cage fluctuates wildly, her gasps slowing to a crawl.

_Dick._

"The nightmare again?" he asks into her neck, lips soft against her icy skin.

She closes her eyes tightly and then opens them again, sternly banishing the silhouettes burnt into the backs of her eyelids in shades of black and white and gray. She doesn't like to dwell on dreams, be they good or bad, but the awful ones are always especially difficult to escape.

With a nod, Barbara turns her body in his direction and buries her face in his chest. "It's all right," he reassures her. "I'm all right."

And she knows this, she does, but sometimes it's nearly impossible to separate the layers of nightmares and reality once they've bled together so seamlessly.

The nightmares haven't completely gone away in the months since the accident, and she hadn't expected them to. Every few weeks like clockwork, Barbara still wakes up screaming, tangled in sheets and razor-edged dreams. She can still smell it, tastes the copper mixing with the rain on every third breath.

Dick's hands are on her wrists, a memory of the tight grip that had protected them both from her vehement thrashing.

Involuntarily, she shudders, curling closer to him. "It's okay," he reassures her. "It was just a dream."

She presses her face into his shoulder and tries not to cry.

He's not quite sure what to do, so they lie in silence for a few minutes until her pulse evens out.

"I know," Barbara eventually croaks, her voice breaking for the second time in two minutes. "You almost weren't." She clings to him, even more tightly than before. "You might not have been."

"But I am," Dick reminds her gently, tracing the soft slope of her shoulder with his left hand. The cool contrast of his silver ring on her skin making her shiver in an entirely different way.

She moves a hand to her own ring, twisting and turning it so that it reflects the sliver of starlight creeping in through the thick curtains of the room. The alarm clock, just visible over Dick's shoulder, reads 4:30am- less than two hours since they'd come in from patrol, sliding into sleep after halfhearted showers.

Feeling guilty for waking him again, she sighs. Buries her expression in the soft creases of his flannel nightshirt.

His voice slightly muffled by her hair, Dick offers, "We could take tomorrow off, if you want." And Barbara leans back, starts to protest, but he places a finger over her lips. "No, listen. We've gone a while without a day off, and I think Wally and Artemis can handle the team without us."

Barbara considers this- considers a whole day of having Dick to herself- and nods into his shoulder.

"All right?" he asks her. "All right," she replies.

No more nightmares.


	22. Character Study: Jason Todd

**A Jason Todd character study I did for cryta, as a thank-you. (Meta-fic.)**

* * *

Jason is the righting of wrongs, done wrongly.

He's a silent hurricane; the devastating calm of a bright blue day over an abandoned city. He's that little boy on the bus that everyone feels sorry for but no one defends, who eventually grows into a man that makes people like you afraid.

He is retaliation; reprisal. Retribution.

Jason is not a threat, but rather the promise of righteous protection and an icy cache of merciless justice. (He thinks that maybe, it's the worst kind of threat.)

He's unpredictably inclined to both intense brutality and extraordinary empathy in inexplicable intervals, and for this reason most people tread lightly around him. Razor-sharp words conceal an overcompensatingly autonomous spirit, but reluctantly so. (It wasn't always this way, you see.)

Jason is the empty space between words, hollowed into phrases like _he was too young_ and _such a brave boy_, and the spaces are empty because the words are empty, and the words are empty because no one came for him, just as no one has ever come for him.

But above all, he is made up of never-ending memories.


	23. Character Study: Tim Drake

**Got a request for this on tumblr!**

* * *

Tim's a façade of knobby knees and feather-light bones, just barely held together on brute strength and willpower alone.

He wears tranquility like the sea hides itself before a storm, all glassy eyes and still waves.

The human representation of a broken snow globe, Tim's a veneer of perfection; shattered recollections seeping liquid from a cracked bulb, twisting up into nothingness. Good, but. Not quite perfect.

He's only small on the outside. A world of possibility and hesitation, of suffering and hope, he walks the streets like a kicked dog: wary, and observant, and no-one's son.

Infrequently allowing his guard to drop, Tim never rests the iron burden on the ground despite the multitude of friends and family that would happily bear the weight of it for him.

Some days feel like tearing apart, and he's afraid that taking off the cowl would choke him until his lungs collapsed. Unsure if anyone could save him, or even if he wants to be saved.

Corded muscles attach to hollow bones at the rib cage- Tim's all skinny lines and right angles. Sharp. Sharp, and unforgiving, and angry, and gentle, and brave, and kind.


	24. whispering like it's a secret

**A/N: Dick and Barbara are around 17 and 18, and in ther Nightwing and Batgirl personas, respectively. For DickBabs Execute week on tumblr, because ****_I need it like burning._**

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"Keep that up, and you're going to wear a path in the floor," Barbara remarks, idly working her way through a dog-eared copy of _Fahrenheit 451_. Without lifting her eyes from the page, she feels Nightwing halt for a brief moment by the far side of Mount Justice's main room, before resuming his pace.

He's been working himself up to say something for a while now, and she watches him from the safety of her peripherals. Back and forth he goes, back and forth, one wall to the next, to the _next_ until she's faintly seasick and more than a bit impatient.

Finally, she tears her eyes away from his retreating form, sets the book facedown on the sofa to card her fingers through her wind-tangled hair. The night's wintry drizzle had found its way under her cowl, and a sudden trickle on the back of her neck causes her a brief shudder beneath the delicate cotton of her pajama shirt.

Almost immediately, a blanket finds its way around her shoulders and, surprised, she turns her head, only to find herself eye-to-sunglasses with one uneasy Nightwing.

"Spit it out, Wonder Bread," she says, turning away and making like she's going to pick up the book again.

"Wait, I-" he grabs on to her arm, and she freezes. He coughs, immediately letting go. "I have something to say."

"I can see that," she replies after a beat, and it's a Herculean effort to keep all but the barest hint of amusement out of her voice.

Nightwing resumes his pacing, pulls at the shock of hair that falls right into his eyes -one of his major tells- and Barbara sighs. "I don't really know where to start, so. I'm just going to jump in, I guess," he says, his voice rising at the end of the statement, turning it a question.

"By all means," Barbara deadpans, stifling a chuckle- because _honestly._

He swallows, and his Adam's apple looks like it wants to jump out of his throat and into his mouth as he lifts a hand up to his sunglasses. "I- it's me, Babs," he says, pulling them off in one swift motion. "It's me, Dick. From, school, and I'm. I'm Nightwing, and I was Robin, before."

Barbara cocks an eyebrow, dropping her nose back into her book. "I know," she says, as if it's the most natural, the most obvious thing in the world- because it is. She'd known it was him from the moment he'd opened his mouth. It's a struggle, but she manages to hold the snicker in, buries it in the back of her throat. Returns, nonchalantly, to the pages of her book.

"Wait. I- You already-_ What_?" Dick splutters, his familiar features folding in on themselves. "How?"

She looks back up, unable to hide the small, vindictive smile pulling at her lips. "Detective," she answers simply, pointing at her chest with one finger.

"You never said anything," Dick breathes, "so I just assumed-"

"I didn't say anything, because I knew you'd tell me when you were ready. When Bruce was ready." She drops Batman's name easily, but scrutinizes Dick's face to catch his reaction. His eyes widen minutely, if that's possible at this point. "But I knew it was you from the moment you started mangling and repurposing adjectives."

"You. I- Wow." Dick blinks several times, owlishly. "You're _good_," he says, and she smacks him on the arm.

"Of course I am," she replies with a grin. "I'm _Batgirl_."

He feels happiness bubble up in his chest. Why had he put this off for so long? "So, you're not… you're not mad, then?" he asks cautiously, arms crossed protectively over his chest. Sunglasses dangling from his belt loop.

"Oh, I was," she assures him. "I was angry at you for not telling me, at first. But it dawned on me that what was at stake had the potential to be lot bigger than either of us, so. I'm not angry anymore, I suppose." She shrugs. "Although… it did cost you your bike, if I recall correctly."

(She does.)

Dick gasps, looking honestly shocked. "You swore up and down that it was an accident!"

Barbara dips her chin so that her hair all but cloaks her face, smiling wolfishly. "I _said_."

He harrumphs, settling himself on the arm of the sofa beside her. "Well, I guess I can't blame you." He pauses, brow furrowing. "Are you sure you don't want to. I don't know, punch me, or something?"

She laughs at this, really laughs. Semi-consciously, she fists her hands in the warm, downy blanket. "Why, do you want me to?"

"No, no," Dick protests, holding his hands up in front of him in a gesture of _do no harm_. "Just making sure. But…" he pauses. "You're- you're really okay with this, though? With me being Nightwing, just like that? I mean, _really_?"

It's her turn to look surprised, now. "Of course." Barbara looks him straight in the eyes, letting the blanket go until it slips down her shoulders. There's no one she's rather fight alongside. It's him, only him. Always has been, always will be.

"There's no one I'd rather fight alongside, actuall-"

She doesn't have the chance to even complete the thought before Dick swoops in and kisses her, knocking _Fahrenheit 451 _clear off of the couch_._ Barbara wraps her arms around his neck, angles her head to deepen the kiss, and the book comes to rest on the rug with a soft _thunk,_ completely forgotten.


	25. found the place to rest my head

**For theblondebat on tumblr, who requested Older!Damian accidentally inflicting a concussion upon our favorite waffle queen.**

_**Side note; It's really late and no longer have any idea what this actually says- if it's terrible, forgive me.**_

* * *

Lashing out with a powerful kick, Damian swept Stephanie's legs completely out from under her for the seventh time in as many minutes. She crashed to the floor, her shoulder blades connecting squarely with the training mat as she fell, upper arms shouldering the brunt of the impact. For a moment she remained on her back, slowing her wheezing until she'd almost caught her breath.

"Foam mats," she groused, sitting up and rubbing at a purpling bruise on her backside. "Not as cushy as you'd think." Wincing, she accepted Damian's proffered hand.

He snorted, drawing her upright with one arm as he swiped at his brow with the other. "It would appear that you never tire of having your ass handed to you," he drawled loftily, releasing her hand and adjusting the tape around his own with an exasperated sigh. His forehead bunched together sharply, then, "We could. Take a break, if you wish?" He strove for impartiality, but Stephanie detected the trace of uncertainty in his voice and shook her head.

She brushed her hair from her eyes with bloodless fingers, still breathing through her teeth. Shaking out her wrists and ankles, she beckoned him forward with a flash of white teeth and a inviting motion of her own taped-up hands. "Again,"she demanded, leaning forward to wipe the sweat from her temples.

Damian raised a dubious eyebrow, and she dipped her chin into a ferocious smile, launching herself forward; he moved aside with ease.

"It occurs to me," she panted, angling her body to high-kick at his chest, "that we aren't really the best-suited of sparring partners."

_"Tt,"_ He snorted, sidestepping her leg and countering with a fist. "Only after six years and change."

"And at least three feet in height," she reminded, blocking his jabs with the back of her arms.

It was true. He had passed her height before his fourteenth birthday; at seventeen, he towered over her. The difference was especially pronounced during sparring, but Stephanie never allowed it to be an excuse- she insisted that he train with her, maybe more for her own improvement than his own. For someone of her stature and lack of training in her developmental years, Damian might, on a good day, admit that she was a fair fighter. _Commendable, _even.

(Of course, if-and-when normal approaches failed, there was always the mace in her utility belt, as she often reminded him with ever-present mirth.)

"You do realize," he grouched, barely breathing hard, "that if your hands moved half as quickly as your mouth, you would truly be unbeatable, woman." He struck at her side with a closed palm, causing her to waver minutely. She managed to surprised the overconfident half of his brain by staying mostly perpendicular to the floor- she'd picked up a few tricks after bruising her way through years of sucker punches. Springing out of the way, the high kick she delivered grazed his forehead, making him blink. Nearly stumbled, himself.

"Oh, we've graduated from _'Fatgirl'_ to _'woman,'_ huh?" She righted herself, squinting up at him. "I'm touched, D, I really am."

With a flash of teeth, she went after him again, pushing and goading him until he was on the offensive, and he, in turn, drove her to the opposite side of the mat with relentless fists.

Damian rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "You should be so lucky."

"From the way ten-year-old you gawked at me sometimes, I'd say I _am_ so lucky," she replied cheekily, the reflected light of the inky walls catching her dancing ponytail and softening it into liquid gold.

"Don't," he huffed a hard breath through his nose, "be absurd. I've never gawked at anyone or any_thing_ in my life."

"Methinks the lady doth protest _too much_," Stephanie sang through gasping lungs, and squeezed in a lucky head-shot. He hissed, throwing a reciprocative punch at her stomach.

_Had his ten-old-self been so transparent? No, he couldn't have been._

She stepped out of his path, right hook just barely out of range of his cheek. Closing the gap between them, Damian retaliated with a blow to her shoulder in an attempt to knock her off balance.

Unfortunately, it worked, this time- her ankle turned on itself, and Damian could only watch in alarm as the stone floor rushed up to meet her, a rapid turn of events that left Stephanie herself feeling that she might not be seeing -or singing, for that matter- anything for quite some time.

She woke to the faintly musty smell of the sofa and the itching sensation of a heavy bracelet around her wrist. Each inhale sent a dull ache up through her neck and to the back of her head; her brain felt like it was sloshing around inside her skull unattached and she had a killer headache to match.

Blinking hazily, her eyes made their way to the weight on her wrist. It wasn't a bracelet, but a hand: her gaze followed the tawny skin across the cushion until it connected to upper body of its owner, perched uncomfortably on the arm of the sofa.

"Damian?" she croaked. His body twitched when she said his name for the second time, and he was upright in moments. Smoothing down his rumpled hair with his free hand, he maintained his loose grasp on her wrist with the other.

"I-" he started, looking for all the world like a ten year old fresh out of bed, or a deer in the headlights. "I didn't-" He blinked, unclasped his fingers, drawing them to his side.

Stephanie took pity on him, mumbled, "Head hurts?"

"It-" Damian cleared his throat, his Adam's apple bobbed sharply. "You fell. Your head hit the stone," he replied shortly, and blanched as the sound of her head striking the solid surface played in his ears like someone had pressed the _repeat_ button on a terrible melody. "Alfred would like to run a CT scan, to confirm his suspicions, but feels certain that the blow to your head resulted in a Grade 3 concussion. You haven't been out for very long. We. Moved you to the sofa." His throat dried, and he stood by the side of the sofa, looking awkward and uncharacteristically out-of-place.

Stephanie nodded and wished she hadn't. "Makes se- wait, who's_ 'we'_?"

Damian canted his dark head toward Bruce, decked out in full Batman-garb by the control desk, minus the cowl.

The world sharpened a bit as she looked askance. "Oh. Hey, B."

"Stephanie," he acknowledged calmly, without turning in their direction. She didn't begrudge him this; in their line of work, mildly severe injuries were no more than daily fare- weekly, at best.

Wincing, she moved careful fingers to the knot at the crown of her head. They came away with a bit of blood, but she was familiar with head injuries; the most superficial of head wounds still tended to leak profusely.

"I fell?" It was phrased as a question, but the resignation in her voice at the end of the sentence was more of a statement.

"You did," Damian admitted, unconsciously toying with the unraveling threads of his shirt. Then, feeling a bit guilty, "But only because I had driven you to the farthest corner of the mat."

"Hmm." She made a small noise of acknowledgement, narrowing her eyes at at him. "No patrol for me for a while, I assume." He nodded, almost apologetically, and she shifted her body on the couch, trying to find a more comfortable position. Her head continued to throb. "Doesn't hurt as much as my first or second concussions, though, so that's a plus."

"You say that like it makes it better," he said dryly, allowed himself an unsteady breath. It was a strange awareness, concern for his sparring partner. Training with his siblings was technically more beneficial- Cassandra had wiped the floor with him more times than he cared to count- but Stephanie was different. Sparring with her, well... It made him feel more _alive_ than he'd ever been, and, although she was anything but fragile, he never could shake the abstract worry he might, one day, injure her irreparably.

He'd never voiced these concerns, of course, was much more comfortable being flash-frozen; she'd call him out on his duality and then kick his ass all around the training mat in less time than it'd take to get the words out.

Maybe his younger self had been more obvious than he'd previously been willing to believe.

She shifted her head to see better, dead-eyed him. "I appreciate your misplaced guilt, D, but Timmy has martyr complex is big enough for the whole family, and then some. We don't have much room for you to develop one, too. Besides, I," she adopted a deep baritone that sounded absolutely nothing like him, "seem to enjoy having my ass handed to me."

Damian frowned. "It would seem that I spoke too soon," he coughed, an unsuccessful attempt to hide the fact that he had no idea where his train of thought was headed. "As the blame for your injury falls more on me and less upon your utter lack of coordination."

"It's okay, seriously. But I could punch you, if it would make you feel better," Stephanie responded seriously, after a beat.

"It wouldn't hurt me," he snorted, failing to smother a half-relieved smirk.

"Aww, Dami," Stephanie crooned, "It's like you're _begging_ to be flash-frozen again."

They both jumped when, from across the Cave, Bruce called, "I wouldn't underestimate her, Damian. She packs a mean slap." Confused, Damian swiveled his head from his father to Stephanie and back again, until she winked at him, whispered, sagely, "Listen to Daddy Bats. _He knows from experience."_

"I-" Damian began, bewildered, "Duly noted, Father. If she could manage to heave herself from the couch, I might actually be worried." He knelt by her side.

"You're a jerk," she pouted, sticking out her bottom lip comically as she settled her aching head into the corner of the couch.

"Obviously," he deadpanned. Then, quieter, "Did I really gawk?"

"Of course you did, D," she laughed, ruffling his dark hair with one hand and punching him weakly on the shoulder with the other.

(It hurt, but not too badly.)


	26. heavy in your arms cont'd

**A continuation of Chapter 35. It was Concerned!Jason and Dick brOTP bonding… until it wasn't.**

**_Side note; this would be better, but it's late and I need to lay down before I fall down._**

* * *

Tim's deep in a painkiller-induced coma by the time it's Jason's turn to check in on him.

He lingers at the doorframe for a moment, uncertain. Tim's as white as the bedsheets and too-still; the veins that cut through his neck and wrists glisten purple beneath the bandages.

It's easily 3 in the morning, but Jason's still wired, too reluctant for sleep. The rest of his family has long since been in bed, but the adrenaline from Tim's narrow escape has yet to leave him. Which is why, against Dick's sleepy protests of _"S'okay, I can do it myself,"_ he had volunteered to take the 3-6am watch.

He takes the farthest comfortable seat from Tim's bed: close, but not too close.

The Replacement's mouth is slack, and the worry lines that normally hover between his brows are peaceful in sleep. Absently, Jason thinks that maybe's he's never seen Tim look so young; it's hard to remember the kid's true age in the daylight as he juggles two to three identities, balancing the weight of the Teen Titans on too-narrow shoulders.

He needed a break, but. Not one of this nature.

Jason freezes when Tim's breathing hitches briefly, jumps to his feet. He hovers at the bedside for a half-minute, hands splayed in hesitation, just about to run (in a manly, un-panicked fashion, mind you) to Alfred- when it evens out again. He sighs, shrugging off his too-warm jacket before sinking back into his chair.

Tim's forehead draw together, sleeping expressions passing across his face like pond ripples, and it actually tugs at a softer patch in Jason's chest. Not very strongly, he'll have you know_, _but it does, so. He lifts Tim's arm by the wrist to adjust the blanket layers, a needless attempt to make himself useful.

Then, from the doorway, "I _knew_ you secretly cared about Timmy."

Dick's voice is sleep-sticky and fond as Jason whips around, jawing helplessly. Dick yawns, either ignores or completely doesn't notice the younger man's discomfort. Runs a hand through sleep-stiff hair.

"I just- he looked-" Jason clears his throat, discomfited. "The blanket got twisted up."

With a nod, Dick hums, "Uh, huh," agreeably nudging Jason over with his shoulder, bending over his little brother. "Oh, Timmy," he sighs, extending a hand to brush Tim's cowlicked hair from his eyes, fussing over the sleeping boy.

But Jason smacks his hand away, hisses, "You'll wake him, idiot," under his breath.

Sometimes, he thinks that Dick is more of a mom to the group of them than their own mothers ever were. Even so, there are times when Jason and his siblings have to physically defend each other from his smother-cuddles.

Dick emits a pathetic noise -not unlike the dying keen of a beluga whale- when his brother's hand connects with his wrist. Withdrawing it, the pair of them stand side by side for a moment or two, studying the small twitches that make their way across the Tim's limbs visible under the sheets.

"What are you doing up?" Jason asks, almost sternly.

"'Couldn't sleep," Dick replies evasively, and doesn't elaborate further. And Jason doesn't pry, because 1) he doesn't care, and 2) there are very few variables that can rouse Dick from post-patrol sleep, and, right now, the most probable of these is a nightmare.

(Okay, so maybe he cares, a little. Leave him alone.)

Then, "Are you. Going to stay, or do you want me to-?" Dick asks, unsure.

"I dunno," Jason says, with a dry chuckle. "Pretty sure if the Pr-" Dick shoots him a dirty look, "-if _Babybird _woke up and saw me in here, he'd have some kind of psychotic break."

(He'd be lying if he said he didn't recognize the faint bitterness in his own voice.)

Dick snorts. "Not on those painkillers, he wouldn't." His face lightens, voice dropping. "Tim's long since forgiven you for… everything, you know."

Folding his arms across his chest, Jason snorts, "Don't be stupid." His voice barely above a whisper. "'Course he hasn't. Don't know if you picked up on this or not, but a murder attempt isn't something you fucking _forgive_, ever_._"

For something to do, he watches Tim's heart monitor dip and climb, tracks the slow breathing to occupy himself. Avoids Dick's laser-eyes.

Reflexively, Dick recoils, squints at him. "Do you really believe that?" he asks, delicately. Readjusts Tim's pillows on either side of him to fill the pause as Jason scrutinizes the floor beneath his feet with sudden, avid interest.

Tim coughs in his sleep and the brothers stiffen, only relaxing when his eyes remain closed for more than a half-minute.

Uncomfortable, and unable to return Dick's discerning stare, Jason shuffles his feet against the ridiculously plushy carpet. Curls his crossed arms closer in on himself, every bit the sullen kid Dick remembers.

(Sullen, and well-meaning.)

After a delay, "I did terrible things to him, Dick," Jason admits softly, swiveling his eyes from the floor to the sleeping boy. "I was hurt, I wanted- I thought he had taken my place. That he should have to suffer, too." Frown deepening, he shifts himself a bit away from Tim, tightening up his entire body as though bracing for a hit.

But Dick, who would never hit him, flinches himself and tries to pretend he didn't. Camouflages it with a light pass of his hand over Tim's brow.

"I was wrong," Jason gets out, words tumbling out and over each other, like he can't stop them. "I mean, sure, he's an annoying little shit at the best of times, but. He's a good kid. I should have given him a chance." Voice breaking off again, an uncomfortable hand rustles through the hair at the crown of his head; Tim's various tubes and wires beep out a soothing pattern in between breaths.

And Dick plants his hands firmly on Jason's shoulders, forcing his head up to meet his eyes. "Jason, listen. No, don't look away-_Listen to me_."

Jason's head jerks up. It's a rare occasion indeed that Dick calls him by his full name- no, it's almost always _Jay_, or _Jaybird_, or_Little Wing_. Only _Jason_ when someone's ill, gravely injured, or when the last loaf of French bread is missing from the counter.

Jason stiffens the muscles in his shoulders imperceptibly when Dick says, earnestly, "You screwed up a couple of times, all right? I won't deny it, but making bad mistakes doesn't necessarily make you a bad person."

When he looks up, Jason's eyes are the color of the sea, rimmed with such raw vulnerability that it leaves an ache beneath Dick's rib cage. For a moment, his expression opens up a bit; it seems as though he believes him, but then, "You're wrong. I am bad person," he bites out, face shutting down again. "And there's nothing you, or I, or anyone can do about it, as much as you or Bruce would like to _fix_ me."

The younger man jerks his shoulder away when Dick tries to level with his eyes again. "You don't know jack about mistakes,_Golden Boy_," Jason snaps, but his voice lacks any real venom. "So don't pretend like you do," he finishes tiredly, throwing off Dick's touch entirely and making for the doorway. Leaving him, forlorn, at Tim's side.

Making a move toward him, Dick drags a palm across his eyes. "Jay- _Jason_, wait. Maybe I don't, okay? Maybe you're right. But Tim- deserves more credit than what you're giving him. He's not like you. He doesn't hold on to things the way you do. He," Dick halts, waits for the right words, "he _compartmentalizes_ things. Information. He stores them away for safe-keeping, but he lives_now_. He doesn't loiter in the past, because he can't. He doesn't have the time or energy to hold onto past grudges. Trust me."

He's close to begging, but Jason still doesn't turn around. "Listen, I'll. I'll go, okay?" Dick wavers. "Just. Stay with Tim, please?"

And Jason's steps falter just before he steps out into the hallway; he steels himself before turning back. "I can't," he lies. "Watch him. Tell him… tell him that if he doesn't get better soon, I'm finding a new information supplier."

Two-thirds concerned and one-third exasperated, Dick rolls his eyes heavenward. "I'm sure he loves you too, Jason. If you would just _talk to him_-"

Jason huffs a breath, out in the hall. There's a faint, "Fuck you," then,

"If you two're done," murmurs a thin voice from the bed, raspy and exhausted, "I c'n go back to sleep?"

In tandem, Tim's elder brothers whip their heads around.

There's a pause, before, "Hi, Timmy!" Dick says, falsely cheerful. Motioning for Jason to reenter the room. With a light palm on the teen's shoulder, he shifts gear completely, asks,"How are you feeling?"

Tim wriggles a bit under the comforter, says, "N't great, to be honest. Thanks," and Jason's lip quirks upwards because _Tim_. Solicitous, to a fault.

Perturbed, Dick asks, "Did we wake you?"

After a beat, Tim replies, "Well, duh," and, despite himself, Jason catches himself suppressing a snicker. Stupid shit.

He really needs to get out of here before he sustains some kind of permanent emotional whiplash.

When Dick says to Tim, low, "How much did you hear?" Jason decides it's now or never. He edges further into the hall, makes his escape. He'd planned to take the early morning watch, but now that Dick is there. Well, he isn't really needed much, is he?

Yeah, he thinks, his presence would just be redundant. Swiveling on his ankle, he pulls his worn leather jacket back around lean shoulders. Pretends not to hear Dick's resigned, "See you in the morning, then?"

And Tim's eyes track Jason's figure as it recedes out the door and down the hall.

**(to be continued… maybe?)**


	27. prompt drabble 2

**That time when I wrote Dick/Babs future!fic in the middle of the night.**

* * *

"I've done everything I can think of," Barbara sighed, "but he won't stop crying." She shifted her arms around the squalling baby, curling him closer against her chest. The clock on the bedside table broadcasted the ungodly hour in bright red digits and Dick stifled a groan, attempted to smooth his bedhead with aching hands.

"I- I've tried singing, and rocking him, and talking to him," she said in a rush, tears of exhaustion gathering in the corners of her eyes. "But he just won't _stop_."

"Let me see him," Dick suggested gently, reaching out for the baby. Barbara leaned forward, tangled red hair brushing her shoulders as she carefully handed him over.

"Hey, Thomas," Dick crooned, pulling the shrieking baby to him, peering into his face. "Mommy and I are tired, buddy. Be quiet, please?"

Thomas ignored him, and Barbara rested her head in her hands, dazed. Dick sighed, thinking.

"Shh," he murmured, shifting Thomas against his shoulder and moving around the room with him. The baby continued to cry, his shrill keens rising in pitch and volume. Barbara fell against the rocking chair, dragging a hand across her eyes. Dick murmured nonsense noises at the child, shifting an arm up to rub at his back.

Almost immediately, the baby let out a small hiccup and ceased his ministrations, settling sleepily into the curve of Dick's shoulder. Barbara's head snapped back up in shock at the sudden quiet, and Dick met her eyes with an equally surprised expression. She motioned for him to lower Thomas into his cradle, which he did, slowly, so as not to startle him.

They slipped back into bed; Dick wound his arms around Barbara's shoulders, pulling her flush against his chest. "_You_ get to take the night shift tomorrow," she mumbled into him, and his lips twitched into a smirk.


	28. (radioactive)

As much as he might be inclined to pretend otherwise, the simple truth about Jason is that he likes to be touched.

Much like Tim, instances of positive physical contact during his formative years were few and far-between; a deadbeat father and a half-gone mother did not a happy childhood make. Jason's strict no-touch policy is equal parts an attempt to keep himself to himself, and the dim hope that maybe somebody will disregard the line altogether.

That he won't have to initiate a hair ruffle or a light slap on the back himself.

And the only person who really does that is his brother, which would be okay, but it's _Dick_, so.

He wavers between consistently resisting the need for tactility and the reassuring _damn, this other person is alive and they're solid and they seem not to mind being around me _of an arm slung haphazardly about his neck or across the plane of his shoulders.

So Jason lets the palm rest on his jacket for a moment or two, leaves the hand on his forearm just long enough for the warmth to crawl under his skin and send tiny electric shivers into his bones.

Because people are warm, and Jason is chilled to the marrow.


	29. the answer is out there

**Hi, it's the middle of the night and this is un-beta'd, but I promised myself that I'd ****_get some writing done this weekend._**

—

It's a few minutes past two in the morning when Tim stumbles into the den, blinking at Jason's blurred outline, illuminated by the flickering glow of the television. He walks like an older man, hunched over and bruised-up, and accidentally kicks the side table with his ankle on his way in the door.

"Wha'" Tim mutters, rubbing his eyes and squinting at Jason, then screen.

Jason, still wired from the late patrol, snorts ungracefully at him. The kid can barely stand up straight; he's still half-asleep, run ragged by several hard nights of back-to-back patrols and general W.E. shit. (Jason prefers to keep his distance from the whole "Batman, Inc." deal, thank you very much.)

"Get lost on the way to the bathroom?" he chuckles, not unkindly.

"Ngh," Tim elaborates, and collapses into the armchair opposite him, disturbing several layers of flannel pajamas in the process. He shoves himself into the corner, propping himself up on the arm of the chair in an effort to see the TV better. "What movie 's this?" he asks, more alert by the second.

"FX is marathoning the Matrix trilogy," Jason responds, by way of reply. "I think this is the beginning of the second one?"

Tim's eyes light up behind the coffee mug that's mysteriously appeared in his hands, probably one of several strategically stashed in and around the Manor. "Hnn. Still the first one," he corrects, perking up as he swallows a large gulp of caffeine, "Man, I haven't seen this movie in forever."

Jason hesitates, then, "Take it easy on the instant, dude," he says, eyeing the mug uneasily, "It's two a.m."

But Tim waves him off, and he slouches further into the couch, eyes returning to the television.

They don't speak for a while, attentions captured by impressive stunts, mildly-dangerous tricks, and the series' signature green-tinted atmosphere.

Neo's just barely halted the bullets when Dick wanders in, disheveled but very much awake. More so than Tim, anyway. And Jason remembers that Friday nights mean Oracle-Nightwing team-ups ("team-ups" is a term used loosely these days), says, "Had a good time with your lady friend, did you, Dickiebird?"

"I'm going to pretend I don't know what you mean," Dick replies primly, and deliberately squishes himself into Jason's side of the couch in a very irritating invasion of his brother's personal space.

"So, li'l brothers," he continues as Jason frowns, attempting to squirm away, "What are we watching?"

A frequent target of his Dick's intense cuddle whims, Tim smothers a smirk before answering, "The Matrix." Jason glares at him, mouthes _'help me,'_ to which Tim turns a blind eye.

"Oh!" Dick's expression brightens as he unconsciously tightens his hold on Jason, who coughs. "I love this movie! Do you think Damian-"

_"No,"_ comes Tim and Jason's forceful response, causing Dick to pout. "I just want him to feel included-"

"That's very nice of you, but it's the middle of the night, and the kid's miles away with Colin," Jason interrupts, struggling to free himself of the older man's octopus limbs; he's just started to get actually violently frustrated when the brothers are distracted by a sudden, silent Cass in the doorway.

"Oh, Cassie, I'm sorry, did we wake you?" Dick asks gently as she crosses the carpet, curling herself up against his side and subtly drawing most of his focus away fromsmothering Jason. Content to indulge Dick's snuggle needs for the time being, she's sent a sincere _'thank you'_ from Jason, after he moves to the furthest edge of the couch.

"No," she says quietly, then, "Already awake. You were… watching movies, without me?"

"Oh, no," Tim pipes up, quick to reassure, "We just kind of ended up in here. Didn't want to wake anybody else up." A small part of him looks like he wants to join in the sudden cuddle festivities, but the rational section of his brain (read: all of it) is quick to remind him that once in, there is no escape, so. He stays where he is.

She nods into Dick's shoulder, falls silent.

After a few minutes, Dick asks, "So, what's the consensus, little sister?" Cass blinks, and he elaborates, "Is their body language totally ridiculous, or?"

Cass' expression clears as she studies Trinity's movements —so quick and sure to the unpracticed eye— then, "The woman…" she nods, "Better than most. She is… accurate. The man-"

"-Neo," Jason interrupts.

"He is like a robot," she finishes sagely, leaning back into Dick's arm.

"Funny, I _thought_ something about him reminded me of Bruce," Jason muses, a thoughtful hand on his chin, and Tim startles his siblings with a loud snicker from the armchair. He slaps Jason a high five when Dick shoots them a dirty look.

"You guys are terrible," Dick declares, feels Cass' small frame shaking with laughter against his side. "Despite his obvious emotional deficit, I think Bruce's done his best, all things considering."

Tim nods, and Jason mutters under his breath, "Am I one of those 'all things'?"

Dick smacks him lightly on the arm. "Nuh-uh, li'l wing. You don't get to just go and angst things up. That's not how these things work," and Jason snorts.

"They're… right. Sometimes," Cass corrects, and Jason shoots her a grin.

"Wait, guys, it's the good part," Tim hushes them, and Jason scoots farther outside of Dick's reach, (but the couch is small so it is only _just_).

—

The blissful calm that follows lasts for the remainder of the movie and well into the following; by the time The Matrix Reloaded fades to black and the credits start to roll, the only ones left awake are Dick and Jason, the former only by a thread. Tim had conked out somewhere in the middle of coffee #2 (decaf, unfortunately), and Cass' soft and steady breathing speaks to a heavy week.

And Jason's barely awake by the time Bruce's form makes its way by the doorway… does a double take, hesitating on the doorjamb as he takes in the scene before him.

Tim's skinny limbs are half-in, half-falling-out of his armchair, his fingers inches from the coffee mug that Bruce should have removed from the room earlier in the evening. Dark hair sticks up in odd places, and _how many layers of pajamas is he wearing?_ Bruce makes a mental note to crank up the heat in the boy's hallways, at least, because _geez_.

Jason's sprawled out on the carpet in front of the muted TV, lean frame stretched out beside Dick's feet. His white streak half-flops across his eyes, and there's a healing scratch twisting down one of his arms— a long knife wound that's stubbornly resisting several stitches. He could ask Alfred to take a look at it in the morning… but then, maybe he should just do it himself. Jason has this funny expression on his face, and Bruce can count on one hand the number of times he's seen the boy look so utterly peaceful; he looks so much like his younger self when he sleeps.

Bruce blinks once, twice, shifts his gaze up to Cass, curled snugly under Dick's protective arm. Her breath stirs a few strands of her silky hair when she exhales, and every few seconds she'll twitch, either dreaming of fighting or reliving a past one. (He hopes it's a victorious one.)

And Dick has his face buried in one of the couch cushions; he's gotten so tall that he takes up almost the entire sofa. Bruce can hardly believe he's not a little boy anymore, but of course he can. It's been over a decade since the little circus boy had come to live with him, but time feels like liquid, sometimes.

Alfred's quiet footsteps sound behind him, and he has to shake himself a little. The butler doesn't say anything, but Bruce senses his quiet amusement. "What are we going to do with them, Alfred?" he asks.

"What we've always done, Master Bruce," the old man replies, and Jason watches Bruce follow him out the door through half-lidded eyes.

Warm, and feeling safe, he's asleep in minutes.


	30. (winter warmth)

**theblondebat prompted: Steph teaching older!Damian how to cook breakfast.**

* * *

"And when the batter's all mixed together," Stephanie sing-songs at him, "You pour it right into the waffle iron." With a practiced turn of her wrist, she expertly swivels the bowl over the waffle iron, just barely managing not to dribble batter across the kitchen counter.

Damian watches her hands and forearms like a hawk, ready to pull her arms away; he'd rather not have to treat her fingers or wrists for waffle iron burns (she refers to them as "battle scars") so early in the day—although, really, it wouldn't be the first time he'd heard a hiss and muffled curse over the sound of crisping waffles.

It's early in the morning and the kitchen is chilly, so they're both in big sweaters and at least two pairs of socks; the curtains on the Gothic windows are parted wide at Stephanie's request, in order for her to better watch the downy flakes come down.

"A few minutes more, and the breakfast magic that is chocolate-chip waffles will be served. Although, frankly," Stephanie drawls, leaning into his chest, "I'm not sure if you're ready for this calibre of breakfast deliciousness yet. They're kind of an acquired taste." She squints up at him.

"_You're_ an acquired taste," Damian _tt_'s, and, if not for the gentleness with which he pulls her back against his chest, he might even have sounded like he meant it.

He nudges her head under his chin, and she hums contentedly, making happy noises at him until he tucks his arms around her waist.

She settles into his arms, and the kitchen smells like syrup, and winter, and almost-browned waffles.


	31. (dry house, wet clothes)

**A/N: A fluffy little drabble inspired by the wonderful incogneat-oh's headcanon.**

* * *

Tim's hands are always cold.

Fingertips, especially. Stubbornly resistant to gloves, and friction, and warm breath, they're always just on this side of icy numbness. They've been this way for so long that Tim doesn't remember what it really is to be really warm all the time, and the sudden, all-over heat that comes with warm showers is an unwavering surprise, each and every day.

And, although he has no recollection of this, when Tim was small in the vast coldness of his parents' house, he used to shove them into his armpits in an attempt to warm them; despite the meager effect of his low body heat, the habit just kind of stuck.

His family is unaware, of course, because Tim rarely initiates physical contact. That's not to say he doesn't enjoy it, if it's Dick, or maybe Stephanie, but only that he normally waits for the other person to reach out for him. He'll even let Bruce or Jason close enough, once in a blue moon.

But nobody touches his hands, and most of him is glad for that, because, well. Hands are delicate, and personal. Private.

(Tim is private.)

So it's accidental, the first time Dick brushes his hands. It's been a disgustingly long night, and Tim's handing over a mug of coffee (_French pressed, if you wondered- I just thought you might like it?_); his brother's hands outstretched hands just barely graze the ends of Tim's fingers, so lightly that he doesn't even notice, then,

"Timmy!" Dick jumps theatrically, almost spills the steaming drink all down his front. "Your hands are freezing! Come here." Without a second thought, the mug is abandoned on the kitchen counter, and Tim finds his hands tightly clasped to his brother's.

Reflexively, he tries to pull them back -"_Dick_"- but man's stronger than he is, and he has little effect.

"They're freezing, Tim," Dick repeats, sternly, "Don't fight me on this, buddy. C'mere." He tugs at Tim's hands again.

And Tim slumps his shoulders with an exasperated sigh, eventually allows himself to be reeled in. He feigns reluctance, _but Dick's hands are so warm, _and he smells a little bit like the aftershave Tim's father used to use; eventually, his body uncoils. And his brother's grasp feels. Well, not entirely comfortable, but. Secure. Safe.

(Tim likes to feel safe.)

Dick draws him all the way to his chest after a moment, presses his face against the teen's hair. He's unabashedly snuggling, now, a veritable cuddle octopus, and Tim knows he's pretty much out of options- so he just twitches once, twice, and decides to go with it. Dick's warm, and he's solid, and sure.

Then,

"You need better gloves or something, little brother. Or a sweater," Dick muses aloud. "Two sweaters, even. No one would notice if you wore more than one layer, I promise." He drops a quick kiss onto the top of his brother's head, and Tim snorts into his chest so that he knows he heard him. Doesn't dignify him with a response.

The kitchen goes quiet for a few minutes, and Tim absently thanks his lucky stars that Damian and Jason are still on patrol, because_ duh_.

And it's a remarkably short time later when Tim begins to overheat, starts to feel like he's been slow-roasted and smothered, but he doesn't say anything.

Because -although thought it might not last for very long- he is _thawing._


	32. (resurfacing)

**That AU where Stephanie keeps watch over one injured-but-alive Damian Wayne.**

**Part 2 will be up sometime in the near-future (read: when I find the time to write it in class).**

* * *

The clock in Damian's room ran two minutes slow.

The second hand's incessant, just-barely-there ticking would have been nothing on a good day, but tonight it drove Stephanie crazy. It wore further on her already frazzled nerves, exactly one hundred and twenty seconds ahead of schedule.

Although it was Damian who lay in the bed, taped-up and medicated, each tick felt like someone tiptoeing over her own grave. A careful reminder that any shallow breaths he managed to take could very well be measured in borrowed time.

And it struck her, on the edge of an uncomfortable armchair chair with his pale wrist limp in the curve of her palm, just how _small_ Damian really was. The running joke was that he was ten pounds of brat in a five-pound bag, but if you peeled away the varying layers of sarcasm, it was an accurate description.

The sharp angles of his chin and cheekbones —so very similar to Bruce's, already— just barely poked through the childish softness that still lingered in his face, and, much to his chagrin, he had yet to grow into his ears.

The heart monitor beeped out an unpredictable sequence, making music with the clock; however, if not for the unsteady rhythm of beeps and pauses, Damian lay so pale and still that Stephanie might not be so sure that he was even still alive. Every few minutes, one or two of his icy fingertips would twitch, just the faintest curl and uncurl into her palm, and, each and every time Stephanie would grasp his fingers a little tighter, squeeze back.

They were unconscious movements, she knew, but it made her feel a little bit better to hope that even a small part of him could sense it.

Damian was small to begin with, but envelopment between carefully-rolled sheets and off-white bandages crisscrossing his torso seemed to compact him; the single large tape across his nose further emphasized the childish breakability he always tried so hard to disguise.

It was unsettling, to see him so still for such an extended period of time.

Stephanie looked at the clock, the corner of her mouth itching down into a frown. It neared two in the morning, but she was nowhere close to sleepy. Exhausted, sure, but only in body. She was wired, wide awake and running on adrenaline and the protein bars she'd snagged from Tim's computer-bay stash. Alone, now, she had convinced Bruce to let her take the first watch sometime around eleven, once Damian had stabilized; it hadn't been easy, but even Bruce '_I Am The Night_' Wayne couldn't run solely on willpower forever.

So she'd bullied him out of Damian's room, promising a close watch on him for the next several hours. And Bruce never slept for more than four or five hours at a time, so Stephanie half-expected him to turn up again any minute now.

She sighed a little, fidgeting against the tight fabric cover of the chair -uncomfortable, she and Alfred would have _words_- and shifted her hand around Damian's with a sort of gentle caution very much unlike their spars. His left wrist was broken, and he'd sustained several compound fractures in addition to the deep blade wound on his lower chest. If she lived to be a hundred years old, she'd never, _ever _forget the terrible sound he'd made, accompanied only by a rough tearing of fabric and Bruce's own desperate shout.

Stephanie herself had been yards away, close enough to see his irises contract to pinpoints but too far away to run for him.

She blinked at the floor and pulled her hand away to rub at a purpling bruise on her right forearm, pressing just hard enough to hurt.

Deep in thought, she spooked when Damian made a low noise through a film of painkillers, disturbing the cocoon of carefully-arranged blankets.

The edges of his lashes trembled downward and he mumbled something again, too faint and soft for Stephanie to comprehend. He strained to sit upright. "Hey, it's okay," she stumbled. "You're okay, D. Lie back down." She set a hand softly on his shoulder, both to calm him and to prevent further exacerbation of his injuries. He struggled against her, managed to resist for a moment before collapsing onto his back.

His eyes darted to her face and then about the room, pupils blown with panic. "هذا يض," Damian exhaled, a half-sob. _It hurts._

Tears gathered in the far corners of his eyes, and Steph's brows drew together in sympathy. He watched her with those bright blue eyes, hooded by exhaustion and pain. "I don't know what you're saying, Little D," she pleaded. "Do you want me to get your dad?" He closed his eyes without responding, and after a moment she removed her hand from his arm, making for the door. "I'll just. Get your dad, okay? Back in a sec, I promise."

She'd just wrapped a hand around the half-open door when he coughed once, croaked, "Brown."

She swiveled. "Damian?"

"Grayson... my father," he continued, low. "Safe?"

Her chin dipped into a nod. "They're fine, D," she assured him, "You saved them. Tim and Jason, too. Everyone's fine."

Damian harrumphed, and immediately looked as though he wished he hadn't. His throat was raw from screaming. "Even Drake?" he asked, sounding like he hoped otherwise.

Stephanie just barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Yes, Damian. Even Tim."

The corners of his mouth lifted, almost pleased, and he settled back into the sheets. Eyes drifting, a new dose of painkillers blurring his vision around the edges. "You are here, which means my father and Grayson are sleeping, yes?" She nodded, and he started to dry cough at the end of the question; Steph grabbed a half-full glass from the dresser and held it to his lips.

He drank thirstily, then, "Although I have serious doubts about your ability to assist me, should I flatline, I have no wish to wake them."

The shaking in her hands finally starting to subside, she wrapped her arms around her middle. "Is this you asking me to get Alfred, or to stay?" She was relieved- if Damian was alert enough to be a little snot, surely his condition couldn't be too serious. (Right? Right.)

Damian's nostrils flared, and he released a small _tt_. "Don't be daft," he answered, but his voice was small, just a hint of his English accent creeping in. Fading, quickly, and his eyelids fluttered.

She sank back into the bedside chair. "Okay, Damian," she chuckled, and curled her fingers around the edge of his shirtsleeve. "I'll just go ahead and stay here, for a while."

He closed his eyes and emitted a cross little noise between his teeth, but made no move to remove himself from her grasp.

"Okay," she repeated, quietly, and fiddled with the edge of the comforter until his breathing evened, and he slept.


	33. Chapter 33

**21bang**** asked: **I have this headcanon where Damian becomes the fashion police when he sees Barbara, Cass, or Stephanie leave to go dates or something.

**This is me, being productive on Spring Break by filling an adorable tumblr friend's prompt. But I'm a little conked-out with some kind of head cold, so excuse any kind of poor quality?**

* * *

"Brown," Damian demanded, without looking up from the hardback in his hands. Half-out of the living room, Stephanie paused.

"Yes?" she replied, firmly suppressing the urge to roll her eyes. Almost a year, now, and he still refused to call her by her given name. She shifted her purse over her left shoulder, absently pulling out her phone for the third time in as many minutes. Cassandra would be there any moment now: a Batman, Inc. mission had landed the elusive Black Bat squarely in Gotham for the next few days, and Steph would be damned if she didn't make the most of this rare opportunity to spend time with her best girl friend.

"You plan to change your shirt before Cassandra arrives, I hope?"

It wasn't a question. Stephanie raised an eyebrow at him, but he turned another page. "I-" she blanched, looking down at herself, "What? Why would I do that?"

Damian heaved a sigh, one finger carefully placed in the margin of his book. "Seeing as you have worn it three times in the past week, you give the impression that you have nothing left but that childish cartoon sweater to wear."

"Mickey Mouse is classic," Steph muttered, offended. She tugged a little at the threadbare left cuff, working at a loose thread.

"Of course," he continued, dryly, and turned back to his book. "Tell me, did the remainder of your clothes go up in a towering wall of flames? Did your apartment flood, leaving only this sweatshirt behind? Only in that case would that abomination of a sweater be deemed acceptable."

That deepened her frown.

"Why are you so horrible?"

"When did you start stuffing your shirt?" Damian replied, unruffled.

"I don't- Ugh!" Frustrated, Stephanie threw up her hands. In the hallway, she drew in a deep, calming breath. No way was this little snot going to put a damper on her day with Cass. The sweater was old, sure, but it was _classic_old. (Right? Right.)

"I am merely trying to be helpful,_ Fatgirl_," he drawled after her, but she ignored him.

She grumbled, low. Turned to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water… and nearly ran into Dick.

"Stephanie!" he exclaimed, delighted. As if he hadn't talked to her less than ten minutes ago. Annoyed as she was, she found it difficult not to smile back at him: Dick Grayson smiles were a special brand of soothing in and of themselves. Even Damian seemed a little less irritable when he was around, and that was saying something, because Steph was ninety-percent sure that cranky was hard-wired into the kid's genes.

"Hey, don't listen to Dami," he whispered, conspiratorial. "He's just angry 'cause Bruce grounded him for, and I quote, 'insubordination.'"

Nodding, Steph surprised herself with a small chuckle. "Figures."

"Besides, you look great," Dick informed her as he walking into the living room. Clad in mismatched socks, and a ratty tee shirt over bright red sweatpants. (Too lazy to do his own laundry, he'd probably stolen them from one of his brothers' rooms when they were out.)

She paused, toying with the thread on her faded sweater.

Then,

"Says the guy who only cut off his mullet _last year_," Steph sighed, and fought the urge to head for her room.

_Boys._


	34. (die another day)

**Anonymous asked: **Jason, autopsy scars, and comfort. Thank you very much.

**Characters: Jason Todd**

**References to death and moderate injury. This is… not quite comfort? Also, Madonna title, because I have no self control.**

* * *

It's been a disgustingly long night (or two, if he's calculated correctly) and Jason's more than ready to crash into bed for some much-needed REM. Avoiding his sore spots, he shrugs the well-loved leather jacket onto the back of a kitchen chair on the way to his room.

The helmet parts with Jason's head with a soft _hiss_, and he sets it carefully on the dresser, frowns in the mirror at his most recent case of mildly severe helmet hair.

He manages to wash most of the mud and blood —his, for the most part— from places his jacket and gloves don't completely protect. Namely, his wrists and lower neck. The white tee underneath the body armor is sweat-stiff and torn, pretty much trashed, but his body's sustained remarkably few injuries in the past few days.

The shirt goes up over his head, he winces when it grazes a purpling bruise on his cheek— and directly into the trash bin; gooseflesh breaks out across his arms and torso as soon as they're exposed to the moderately chilly air of his apartment.

And Jason can't help but stare at his chest in the dimly lit bathroom mirror: he rarely takes the time to catalogue his scars —his arms and chest are a littered with one and two-inch scrapes and slashes— but the puckered, Y-shaped scars are hard to miss.

Still faintly red after all these years, his autopsy incisions pull at his skin in places, beginning at the edges of his collarbone and meeting in the middle of his chest, distinctly Y-shaped and notched perpendicularly where the medical examiner had hastily stitched his body back together.

Jason's quite sure of being the only living soul in the world with scars exactly like these.

The Pit had siphoned off his internal bleeding when it'd breathed its half-life back into him, a sort of sick side-bonus, but he'd kept the superficial scarring.

His eyes, also, are noticeably different. Lighter, somehow. Before, they'd been a sort of burnished topaz; _shut up, that's what his mother had said, all right?_Before she'd gotten sick, when there'd been more lipstick-kisses and he hadn't been able to feel her ribs when she held him tightly. They'd been very much like Dick's, to Jason's chagrin (but younger-self's delight).

Post-mortem, they're a different color altogether: slate gray, and sort of vaguely clouded. The opacity seems to come and go with the weather and his own shifting moods. Jason halfway attributes it to dying with his eyes open, wonders if maybe they'd already filmed over in the mere minutes before Bruce had located his body under the warehouse rubble.

(He'll never really know for sure, because as much as he enjoys harassing Bruce —and he really does— Jason doesn't quite have the heart to to reopen _that _can of worms.)

And he blinks, could smack himself for being so emo sometimes. Jeez.

He can't stand to look at himself anymore, so he throws on a new shirt and hits the sack.

—

Tomorrow will be the first time his family sees his scars; Alfred digging a buck shot out of his left shoulder after a gang mishap, one which_ neither he nor Stephanie started, thank you very much,_ and Jason will be so doped up on painkillers that he won't even react when Bruce enters the room, helps cut off the remains of another ruined undershirt. Sees the scars, up-close and in-person.

Jason will have just enough sense to fabricate a lame excuse about a run in with Zsasz that barely makes sense at all, and they will still know he's lying.


	35. (silent night)

**Takes place sometime after Batgirl #24, approximately.**

* * *

Damian did not have to ask how the evening's patrol had gone, because it was written all over Batgirl's face. The strain of the evening's activities pulled at the corners of her mouth even in sleep, and the long shower-darkened strands that spread across her right cheek matched a few bruises she'd been too slow to avoid. Curled up tightly on her side on a free medical gurney despite an obvious lack of serious injury, the slight dip between her brows spoke to a night that had demanded just as much from her emotionally as it had, physically.

(Those were toughest kind, he knew.)

Though they'd spoken in low tones, Damian had managed to grasp the gist of the conversation between Gordon and his eldest brother: A surprise appearance by the Black Mask had unwelcomely complicated Batgirl's patrol. With a little luck and a momentary alliance with Red Hood, he'd been contained, but Oracle's words were nonetheless accompanied by accusatory gestures that left Dick's palm up in surrender. There had been sharp words like _trigger_ and _you should have known_, followed by softer _I'm sorry_'s and_doing my best_'s. Damian had itched to step in and tell the infuriating woman off, but had found himself back in the Cave instead.

Brown stayed over at the Manor only on nights following difficult patrols, either out of sheer exhaustion or, possibly, (as Damian suspected) because she did not want to be alone. With a mother who worked the late shift, midnight patrols meant arriving home no earlier than four in the morning to an empty apartment.

Damian's chest gave a painful little twist, studying her sleeping figure. What was it that Grayson had done to comfort Gordon, after a run-in with the Joker?

He paused, conflicted, before moving cautious fingers to the side of her face. Struggling to remember his brother's form exactly, he brushed back a few strands of canary-yellow hair, careful to avoid her purpling bruises. He touched his lips to her forehead, very briefly. She smelled sweet, like something very close to vanilla, but Damian didn't linger.

Brown stirred in her sleep, brow smoothing over, and he stepped away.

"I will see you for training at nine o'clock sharp, Fatgirl," Damian murmured, more to himself. "Don't keep m- don't keep _us_ waiting." And then he turned on his heel and moved toward the elevator to the Manor, the pit in his stomach lessening considerably with each step.

Stephanie waited thirty seconds after his footsteps had faded before shifting into a more comfortable position.


	36. miasmatic (drabble)

_"And now it was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revelers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clocks went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all."_

— Edgar Allen Poe,_ The Masque of the Red Death_

* * *

In his travels at home or abroad with his mother's people, Damian was raised under the common idea that Gotham City was nothing less than a metaphorical cancer. A disease of the city that had spread to the soul, Gotham was in possession of a certain _je nais sais quoi_ that ravaged polluted skylines and trickled into the hearts of its people. An acid rain that was ruinous to each and every last one of them, whether they chose to embrace it or not.

Damian, however, disagreed. Gotham City was sick from the inside out, but it was not a cancer. It was not a cancer, because rare strains of cancer that could be cut out and absolved seemed to suggest that this city, too, might one day be wholly redeemed. But Gotham could not be cured, only delayed; if it was a cancer, then, his father's people were merely the chemotherapy working vainly to shrink a tumor that had already metastasized.

And his father had already read the ending to the story, of course, but he refused to play the part of Prince Prospero. He did not lock himself behind a castle of myriad outlandish fashions and pretend that evil did not exist. He did not dream of the day when his city would not need him, because he knew that day would never come.

Gotham took, and took, and took; she yawned, bottomless, and did not give but for the refuse she spat back into the streets. She stole up her victims and cut out their hearts, but the singular strangeness about Gotham City was that her people did not need hearts to survive.

No, Damian decided, Gotham City was not a cancer. It was the slow knife; a parasite. A Devil in the dark.


	37. the great divide

**For Cor's birthday. I've never written for these two at the same time before, so alkdsjflkj. ****_Look at me try._**

_—_

One of the many small things that both perplexed and amused Bruce Wayne about his daughter was that she did not announce herself when she entered a room. Cassandra Cain was a creature of silence: She was simply _not there _one moment, and standing in the middle of his office's cream-colored carpet in the next.

When he looked up she was already watching him, one of those half-smiles in her eyes and a tilt to her mouth and shoulders that meant she'd been waiting for him to notice. Of all his children, Cassandra was the only one whose footsteps could entirely escape his ears: Damian overcompensated, Tim had a bad habit of unconsciously clearing his throat when he passed under the doorframe, and Dick simply did not try to be quiet at all. Jason had never visited his office at Wayne Enterprises.

Cassandra was dressed simply, in plain black jeans and a light purple blouse. Her arms folded across her chest, waiting for him to speak.

Bruce cleared his throat, awkwardly. It seemed that much communication with his children was strained, these days. "Was there something you needed, Cassandra?" Things had been… complicated, recently. Since he'd been back from his jaunt beyond space in time. With his daughter on the international scene, she was been the one he'd seen least following his return from The Great Beyond.

"Do you want to sit?" Bruce asked, closing his computer indicate his full attention. He nodded at the comfortable leather chair that mirrored the one behind his desk. He tried to size up the situation from her face, but she was more careful with her expression than most.

Cass shook her head, and jumped right in. "When you… left," she said. "I… gave Stephanie Batgirl, like you said." And Bruce appreciated this about her: She didn't dither. She paused, yes, but didn't stall. Her silences meant that she was digging for precisely the right words, and not that she was forming niceties around an unpleasant truth.

Bruce nodded, slowly. "I noticed. Thank you, Cassandra. I had my reservations, but it seems to suit her well." He grappled for a moment, foundering. He was always glad to see his children, to be sure, but Cass rarely dropped by his work office.

"I hear that you go by Black Bat, now," he continued, conversational, after seconds stretched to nearly half a minute.

Cass nodded. "Yes. I am… going back to Hong Kong in the morning," she said, calmly, and his heart dropped into his stomach.

"You've only been here a week," he pointed out.

"Gotham City is… covered," she replied, evenly. "Others are in need."

"Cassandra," Bruce said. Low, but not pleading. Bruce Wayne did not plead. "You could stay." He cleared his throat again, painfully. "Tim misses you." _I miss you._ "As do Stephanie, and Barbara." _Me,_ _I miss you, too._

Cass tilted her head to one side. "I know. I miss… them," she said, eying him in that way that meant she was reading what he wasn't say right off his face. "But others are in greater need," she repeated.

Bruce resigned himself, half-disappointed, half-proud. Leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together loosely on the desk surface. "Understood, but know this: You will always have a home in Gotham. With our family."

Cass nodded. She paused, blinking, and Bruce could see her mind work to connect the right words to her tongue. "But, family," she started, "Family is… not always home."

She stood, then, and Bruce stood, too. He pushed back his chair and walked around the side of the broad mahogany desk. She met him halfway.

Cassandra wrapped her arms around him, pressing her face into his chest. Bruce's arms hung by his sides for a moment, awkwardly, and then slowly came up to hug her back.

"I am glad… that you are back," she said, and he dropped a light kiss to her hair. "I was… sad, when you were gone."

"I'm proud of you," he said, gravelly, and she pulled back. She gave him a light smile and turned on her heel, slipping through the doorway and out of sight. Not once did he hear a single footfall.

She left Bruce standing at his desk, chin on one open palm, the other hand draped quietly at his side.


End file.
